Youjo Senki - Volume 8 - Chapter 1

[chapter I] A Journalist’s Memories of the Eastern Front 

AFTER THE WAR, IN LONDINIUM 

The words operation, military campaign, pitched battle, and decisive battle instantly bring to mind images of hard, brutal fighting. And certainly, any situation described this way will undoubtedly involve combat. 

But on the eastern front, it was a slower trickle of blood that drained the two opposing armies. 

When veterans talk about the eastern front, they think of the infinite skirmishes that occurred in the massive theater of operations where major maneuvers simply didn’t happen. 

It was the same on the Rhine. 

That was another place where towering piles of corpses lurked behind the words nothing to report. 

Those minor engagements don’t appear in history books and are hardly ever remembered. But there is no doubt that much of history was decided in these moments, and now those who gave their lives sleep in silence. 

My name is Andrew. 

I am one of the embedded reporters who visits these forgotten battlegrounds no one speaks of. 

I took up my pen intending to write a memoir, but my preface has gotten awfully long. Maybe I’m too much of an empath. 

Or perhaps by telling my story, I hope to escape my past? 

I wouldn’t say I’m particularly keen on running away, but the young man who lived through those years came back a world-weary scoundrel… In any case, I would not describe them as happy times. 

Still, I was a witness. 

It’s difficult to say how much insight I have to offer or if I can even be considered a reliable observer. To be quite honest, there’s little chance that I accurately remember everything I saw. Moreover, I was inexperienced and didn’t truly grasp what was going on in the Federation. 

But by a quirk of fate, I was permitted to work as a reporter embedded with the multinational unit established by the Federation and the Commonwealth. (At the time, the Federation and Commonwealth could do friendly things like that. Do younger readers know that rather than curse rivaling ideologies, the heads of state back then extolled each other as precious brothers-in-arms?) 

The reason a young reporter would be given such an opportunity was—paradoxically—because I was young. 

To Federation authorities, who angrily glared at most journalists, someone unseasoned and ignorant was the perfect candidate. 

The majority of the other embedded reporters were also my age. I recall that any older reporter I encountered on the scene usually turned out to be a crazy—apologies, I meant “passionate”—Communist. 

But maybe I should be grateful that this experience allowed me to make longtime friends. 

Anyway, we’re getting off topic. Apparently, when you get older, your stories start to meander. Maybe there are just too many memories. 

Memories, yes. Memories. 

For me, there’s the Toad Offensive, a series of operations that took place around the same time as the Imperial Army’s Operation Andromeda. I even saw a unit that might have been the phantom Lergen Kampfgruppe. When I realized what a devious enemy we were up against, I penned a bitter article that the censors latched on to immediately. 

Back then, the censors must have had a hard job dealing with a multinational unit of Federation and Commonwealth troops. The two sides had such conflicting ideas on what should and shouldn’t be written that it was impossible to not fall afoul of one rule or another. 

The result ended up being a good reference for learning how to properly interpret a newspaper article. 

To all the young readers out there, I recommend you take newspapers from that time period and study them alongside your textbooks. How different the history books are from the newspaper stories! 

What should have been fact-based reporting often wound up reading like accounts of a mission to the surface of the moon. I hope you’ll understand the reasons for all the nonsense that made it impossible to find out what really happened without reading between the lines. 

Still, sometimes hard truths that couldn’t be swept under the rug would surprisingly appear right on the front page. 

I myself learned of “Zettour the Terrible” on the eastern front, and that general truly was…a terrifying being. 

Even now, I don’t think there’s anyone who can give a full account of everything he’s done, but as a simple citizen of the Commonwealth who saw him with my own eyes, I think summing up his existence is simple: 

Curse the Imperial Army General Staff for sending that lunatic to the eastern front. 

Overall, it could be considered a disaster for the Imperial Army. Perhaps I should celebrate that, as someone who hails from the Commonwealth. But as one of the people on that eastern front, I have to say that it was none other than Zettour who made our lives hell. 

His presence can’t be described as anything less than a nightmare. 

As an embedded journalist, I must admit our situation was rather ideal. We never ran out of material for stories, and you couldn’t ask for a better environment to dig up scoops. In the end, though, we got too used to the daily body count. 

We special correspondents were praised for our wonderful articles, but…something must just have been wrong with the times. 

I often wrote special dispatches featuring our comrades and brothers-in-arms from the Federation as they fought on the vast eastern front against the “railroad” mages who piled up mountains of corpses. People in the home country couldn’t get enough of these tales about the fierce battles. 

I’m sure there was something wrong back then. 

And that’s why I want to know. 

I’m not looking for judgment, censure, or revenge. 

I just want to know the truth. 

“What do you think of my new manuscript, General Drake?” 

“…It’s your memoir. Write whatever you want. I appreciate you showing me, since we’re old friends, but honestly…are you asking me to censor it? Go find a Commie for that.” 

We’re discussing the manuscript of what I suppose you could call my chronicle. But the reaction of the gentleman who took time out of his day to sit at this café and read it is brusque. 

Unconcerned and indifferent. 

I suddenly feel like cradling my head in my hands. I more or less anticipated this reaction, but he’s even more uncompromising than I expected. 

Considering that this was only the first hurdle, I find it difficult to feel optimistic. 

“What a harsh reception. Wouldn’t it be more enjoyable to simply reminisce together? Isn’t that one of the old standbys of retirement clubs?” 

“Thank you for your fascinating opinion, Andrew.” 

There it is. I brace myself. 

Regardless of what the colonials might say, if someone from back home has a cup of tea in one hand while he describes something as fascinating, there’s no way to interpret that as anything other than scathing sarcasm. He might as well have declared Are you an idiot? to my face. 

“That said, I don’t believe I’ve lost my edge in retirement just yet. If it appears that way to you, I can’t deny that I’m disappointed. How about we reconsider your proposal once we’ve lost all trace of backbone and reason to go on?” Channeling the John Bull spirit with his biting remarks, Drake casually reaches for his tea. His stance hasn’t changed since the old days. In other words, he doesn’t intend to say anything else. 

Very well. I steel my resolve. 

I’ll show him the difference between a self-styled journalist—who merely tries to do their best without prying too much—and myself, a true professional. 

“I’ve gotten on in years. So many things have become a hassle.” 

“Hey now, Andrew. You’re younger than me.” 

Though he’s practically a retired veteran, I can’t help but wince at the words of this general, whose posture is so ramrod straight, it’s as if his body has stiff canvas sewn into it. 

What Drake said is true if you’re counting years, but I can’t help but think of the words physical age. Even a body that could take a beating when younger inevitably mellows with age. 

“Then I’d appreciate it if you’d act more like an old man, General. Couldn’t you take our dear friendship into consideration? How about giving me a peek at your soft underbelly?” 

Honestly, I’m jealous of his energy. 

I’ve heard that aerial magic officers who survived the war either died young from the tremendous strain of using too much magic or wind up living to a bizarrely old age… Drake must be one of the latter. 

“Ha-ha-ha.” Seeing him laugh so brightly, it’s clear he’s a stranger to the concept of wasting away in retirement. “My ‘soft underbelly’? All right, then. I’ll tell you something I’ve been saving. Back when I was a young magic officer in the marines, I telegrammed my lover—” 

“If you’ll excuse my interruption, General, I want to hear about the eastern front.” 

After furrowing his brow for a moment, displeased, he sighs heavily. It’s an utterly natural gesture… He seems genuinely offended at being cut off, but is that truly the case? 

This is where things get interesting. I feel like I’m making real progress. 

“…Andrew, you want to talk about that? Really?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“What is it you want me to say?” 

“Hmm.” I smile wryly and confess. “I want to be able to tell future generations about things I didn’t understand myself at the time.” 

I saw it. 

I heard it. 

But I didn’t comprehend it. 

The sad truth is that merely being present at the time didn’t bring understanding. 

“You’re an awfully persistent chap.” 

“It’s the spirit of journalism.” 

“Spirit, eh? Well, I suppose that’s a good enough reason.” Drake shrugs and takes an elegant bite of his sandwich. His good upbringing reveals itself in the strangest moments, just like it used to back in those days. 

“Let’s say you couldn’t resist and gave in to my persistence. Today would be a good day to finally learn about General Habergram’s role on the eastern front. I wouldn’t say no to hearing the story of Mr. Johnson, either.” 

“Sorry, but I don’t know.” 

“I beg your pardon, but…,” I cut in quickly. “What about the record of Intelligence deploying your marine mage unit in secret? Though it’s circumstantial evidence, the findings of a recent survey conducted by several researchers makes a strong case that your unit participated. Besides, it happened in the very same Federation territory where we first met, General.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. As you can see, I’m not the type who did well in school. I have no idea what the academics are writing.” 

Only a second-rate amateur would fall for that confusion in his voice. I know for a fact that Drake saying he hated school is a bald-faced lie. 

“The very man who shaped the comprehensive officer education curriculum into what it is today claims to detest school? I’d like to tell that to the kids being put through the grinder right now.” 

“I was simply following orders and doing my duty. It’s not as if it was my choice to work on education.” 

“…That’s a very different story from what I’ve heard. In any case, let’s get back to the original topic. Please tell me about the secret operation.” 

“Are you forgetting what my rank was at the time? I was only a lieutenant colonel, for crying out loud. What exactly do you think I was privy to?” 

That telltale gesture he favors whenever he feigns ignorance really brings me back to the old days. It’s no wonder countless young journalists misread the dashing marine magic officer. 

But I’m not about to make the same mistake again. 

“‘Only a lieutenant colonel,’ you say—yes, I was once green enough to buy that excuse. How nostalgic. I occasionally think about those days, even now.” 

“Nostalgic…? I have complicated feelings about hearing that from someone who was also there on the same eastern front.” 

“In that sense, thinking of Colonel Mikel makes me nostalgic, too.” 

For a moment, I catch a glimpse of conflicting emotions on the general’s face, but sure enough, his mask of innocence is solid as steel. Nodding with a wry grin, he proceeds to change the topic. “…That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. You’re a crafty one. We’re living proof that there was actually a time when we called Federation soldiers allies, huh?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to leave something behind while you’re still alive?” 

“How about a story, then? I can’t talk about what I don’t know. But, well… Do you mind if I smoke?” 

“Not at all.” 

As the mellow smoke of his cigarillo fills the air, he flashes a bitter smile. “…Those were truly strange days, Andrew.” 

JUNE 8, UNIFIED YEAR 1927, THE EASTERN FRONT, MULTINATIONAL FORCES HQ 

“…Haaagh, I made it,” I murmur softly. Even as Andrew, the WTN correspondent who learned the ropes on the Rhine lines, I feel terribly uneasy entering the Federation. 

Honestly, I’m surprised my credentials didn’t get in the way. Even before war with the Empire broke out, the Communist Party papers were calling my homeland “a den of bigoted reactionaries.” 

Nothing short of the grace of God could have saved this plan to allow dozens of journalists from a capitalist state to cross the border. 

As a result of the aberrations caused by the monster known as politics, a miracle occurred. 

Yesterday’s enemy became today’s ally. Commies and Limeys together at last, quipped the imperials of the outlandish alliance, but the result was that these mortal enemies, Communists and capitalists, would unite to fight a common threat. 

Even if it was only on the surface, that change became an opportunity for potential breakthroughs on everything that had been previously considered nonnegotiable. It was only natural for relations between the Federation and the Commonwealth to improve dramatically. Thanks to this elevated level of cooperation, the Communist Party allowed a group of Commonwealth reporters to enter their territory, even if it was only because they were accompanying the expeditionary force. 

The Federation traditionally barred the vast majority of foreign press. It really was a miracle that reporters were allowed in any shape or form. 

This was an unprecedented chance. Veterans of the industry began fierce negotiations to secure the limited slots. Some leveraged their breadth of experience or emphasized their proficiency in Federation language. There were also those who boasted their extensive knowledge of history. None of these skills was something that could be acquired overnight, so needless to say, it was hard for a small-time journalist to compete. 

Though I had experience reporting from the Rhine front, I was one of the younger reporters at WTN. I was self-aware and objective enough to realize that I had little chance to be picked over my seniors. 

Honestly, when my boss told me I’d been chosen to go, I immediately suspected an ulterior motive. 

But the moment I set foot on the ship bound for the Federation, I understood I hadn’t been picked because the higher-ups thought I could do a better job than my colleagues. 

Why did WTN choose me? The explanation is extremely simple: The only possible answers are my age and my lack of experience. 

One look made it painfully obvious. With few exceptions, the press corps was made up of youngsters from each publication. 

I’ll also mention here that ours was a small industry. Right or left, I’d at least heard the names of the more polarizing thinkers. 

With numbers so skewed, even a child could grasp the Federation’s intent. Just a list of the members would have been enough to figure it out. One glance told me they had handpicked a biased group of rookies who hadn’t made a name for themselves yet alongside a handful of veteran Red sympathizers. 

I’ll admit that the young journalists seized the opportunity and made up for their lack of experience with zeal; the moment we hit the ground in the Federation, we began sending reports of everything we saw and heard back to our offices. To be blunt, greedy baby journos, eager to rack up achievements and starving for any scoop they could get, sallied forth to the front lines to make their fortunes. 

Granted, we had a degree of education and maintained a veneer of civility…but you needed some serious ambition to be willing to come all the way to the eastern front. 

After all, I also came here with the intent to jump-start my career. 

First thing I set my mind to was implementing a few safety measures I picked up during my time on the Rhine lines, such as familiarizing myself with the vicinity of my lodgings to burn the lay of the land into my brain. I did this while trying my best to get a feel for the unit we were attached to. 

My first moves were, if I’m being honest, complete failures. 

Although some loosened up to questions about their hometowns and their lives back there, these consummate marine mages wouldn’t spill a word about anything important. When I tried to interview the former Entente Alliance volunteer mage unit, a political officer from the Federation Communist Party immediately got in my way. After several more attempts to sound people out, I got the sense that they were determined not to let any significant news leak. 

But if all I did was forward the official statements to Londinium, there would be no reason to pay my salary. If I was going to return empty-handed, I would have to be prepared to not have a job anymore by the time I got home. 

When the need arises, people get creative. My plan now was to secure an interview with the commander of the Commonwealth unit dispatched to the Federation, Lieutenant Colonel Drake. 

While memorizing the lay of the land, I shrewdly scoped out the places the higher-ups liked to spend their time. Having filled a thermos with tea, I cruise around the garrison until I find my target. 

Pretending as though it was a coincidence, I take out my thermos and say hello. “You’re Colonel Drake, right? Funny meeting you here. Would you fancy a cup of tea?” 

“Thanks. Andrew, was it? So what’s this about?” 

“Come again?” 

“You’re a journalist, no? I don’t imagine you’re the good-natured type who would serve free tea to a public servant you just happened to run into.” 

I cock my head at him in a show of confusion, but in my mind, I click my tongue. Journalists always pay for the tea, and things tend to get hairy when the source figures out exactly how much it’ll cost them. 

“…What’s wrong with having at least one kindhearted journalist around?” 

“Ha-ha-ha. Then how about we spend all day chatting about the weather? Or maybe I should recite the official lines about the beautiful cooperation between the Federation and the Commonwealth like a broken record?” 

“Anything but that, I beg you.” 

Between the shrug he gives in response to my complaint and the casual way he pretends to be hiding nothing, Drake proves to be bizarrely impervious to the ministrations of mass media. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, are you part of some frontline public affairs unit, Colonel?” 

“No, as you can see, I’m a rough-and-tumble marine mage.” 

Oh, come on. I sigh, figuring it’s a bit—well, more like quite a bit—of an overreaction. I try to rattle him. 

“So you’re saying a mere marine magic officer… Oh, no offense.” 

“None taken. You’re a civilian, not to mention a dirty journalist. You have the right to say what you think.” 

“…I’m honored, Colonel.” 

All I learn from trying to provoke him is that unfortunately he’s a cut above me. He wasn’t angered by my rudeness, and he doesn’t opt to ignore me, either; I don’t have any more moves to make if he’s just going to come back at me with sarcasm and a smile. 

He can see every card in my hand. 

Respecting journalism is all well and good, but this is undoubtedly an officer who knows how things are done. It would be extremely difficult to get him to say anything I might want to hear. 

“Come now, Andrew, there’s not much point in two fellows from the Commonwealth stealthily trying to probe each other. Why don’t we compromise? First, tell me a bit about yourself and your career.” 

“Uhhh, I think my résumé was attached to my application to come here.” 

Applying for the visa at Londinium’s Federation Embassy had been a nightmare. It got so bad that I was tempted to ask if they were trying to create a set of rules governing the rules that governed the rules. 

“I had to fill out a ton of paperwork for both countries in order to get authorization to come along as an embedded reporter. What else was I supposed to put in there?” 

“I mean, I did take a look at your documents. Alongside the paranoid Federation chaps.” 

“You say they’re paranoid?” 

“Oh, are you a Red?” 

“I may not be green anymore, but that doesn’t make me a Red.” 

Apparently, my attempt at a witty remark impresses the lieutenant colonel. He doesn’t ridicule me for putting on airs—on the contrary, he nods in satisfaction. 

“…Then you have my apology. I guess I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.” 

“Could that comment be…you throwing me a bone?” 

Is he hinting at struggles working with the Federation? There’s no denying that this grinning lieutenant colonel is a tough customer. Anyone’s interest would be piqued if an officer directly involved in Federation-Commonwealth joint operations hints at such news. 

If I want to hear any more, I’ll have to play by his rules. I make it clear I understand and nod. 

“Allow me to reintroduce myself. Special correspondent Andrew from WTN, a poor journalist who, after being embedded on the Rhine lines, covered Entente Alliance refugees and was then, through some irony of fate, told there were scoops to be had on the eastern front and thrown out here.” 

“Thrown?” 

“WTN would have preferred to send veterans. Curiously, it seems all the papers only managed to get young people admitted to the Federation.” 

It’s becoming hard to tell who’s interviewing whom, but…if I can draw Drake out this way, I’m more than happy to play along. Whether I’ll be able to uncover some real news and not just pick up whatever he feels like sharing comes down to my skill. 

“Ah, well, journalists do make the Federation fellows nervous.” 

“…I’ve noticed. I mean, they’re so considerate of even a greenhorn like me. I get both a ‘guide’ and an ‘interpreter.’ Frankly, it’s all a little overbearing.” 

“The thing is, Andrew, and maybe you aren’t aware, but their hospitality can go even further.” 

“Oh?” 

Is he finally going to tell me something worthwhile? 

Drake chuckles to himself in satisfaction in response to my eagerness. However, when I look more closely, I notice the smile never reaches his eyes. 

“You can ask them for tea, snacks, or anything as long as it isn’t film or a telegraph. They’ll gladly accommodate any reasonable requests.” 

Ah. I nod. “So the Federation soldiers want to look good for the press—propaganda… Honestly, though, this isn’t my first time reporting on the front lines, so I wasn’t hoping for any special treatment.” 

“By which you mean?” 

“If I can sleep in a military cot, that’s good enough for me. Colonel Drake, I’ll have you know I was on the Rhine lines. Naturally, that means I reported from the trenches.” 

It was a terrible experience, but most educational ones usually are. One day holed up in the trenches with Republican troops and not much will shock you anymore. 

With the guts I cultivated living through that, I’m confident I can make it anywhere now. 

“I’ve had my share of ‘delectable meals packed with nutrition’ that turned out to be a tin of corned beef and some moldy hardtack, so I’m used to the military’s brand of hospitality.” 

Drake just shakes his head at this. Is he amused because I misinterpreted his grin? 

“Ah, Andrew, you’re so pure.” 

“Huh?” 

“In this area where the multinational unit is deployed and this area only, the Federation Army’s supply problems have all been mysteriously solved. I think you really can get anything, as long as you ask.” 

“Like scones and tea and cucumber sandwiches?” 

“An elegant afternoon tea like back home? I bet they could make that happen.” 

Right as I’m about to laugh while thinking he has to be joking, I notice Drake nodding with a completely straight face. 

“I beg your pardon, but that seems utterly impossible in a war zone… Are you being serious?” 

I nearly scream. Is he really telling me that even though there’s a war on, the Federation military is willing to serve journalists a luxurious high tea? 

“It may be difficult to believe, but I suspect it’s quite possible.” 

“This is the forward-most line, for goodness’ sake.” 

“The cucumber may not be fresh—probably pickled—but they’ll do whatever it takes to fulfill your requests, two hundred percent.” 

“…Wait. There must be a catch, right?” 

No matter what kind of pretext we came under, embedded reporters are unwelcome interlopers here. The best we would normally hope for is being treated as such, especially considering how we’re eating for free. 

But if what the colonel said is true, such a gift would be far more costly than the cup of tea journalists regularly offer. 

“Is it for propaganda…?” 

“That’s level one.” Drake’s grin disappears, and he suddenly looks tired. “It’s also likely you’ll find yourself running into plenty of chances to have a fiery romance with pretty girls or whatever sort of companion you prefer all over the eastern front, so be careful.” 

“H-h-hold on a second!” I shout in spite of myself, unable to gloss over that. 

After glancing around to make sure there are no Federation people here…I finally remember that we’re talking outside with no one nearby. I panicked so hard that I completely forgot. 

There are rumors about the exact thing the colonel just mentioned, the sort that manifest as jokey gossip over drinks. Of course, they aren’t the type of stories you can just take at face value. Or so I thought. 

“That really happens?” 

“I like to joke around, but I would swear on my rum that this is true. If I could, I’d warn everyone.” 

“…I’ve heard the rumors, but it’s really that bad?” 

“It’s awful,” he mutters. “I have been making a point of telling everyone in private…though your Red pals really lit into me for it.” He shrugs with an exasperated mutter. His expression is one of utter exhaustion. 

It’s clear he’s fed up with it all. 

“In their defense, the Communist Party is desperate, too.” 

“You mean they’re at the end of their rope?” 

“Not quite.” Taking a moment to consider how to best explain, Drake falls silent briefly before continuing his thought. “They say their party is perfect, but it’s barely hanging in there. That’s why they’ll resort to pretty much anything at this point to keep up appearances.” 

I have no idea what he’s trying to say, but it seems awfully significant. I must be missing something. It’s frustrating to not have all the pieces I need. 

“Well, I’ve shared quite enough for one day. We got pretty into it for a single cup of tea. Any more will cost you extra.” 

“Then next time, I’ll bring a cigar.” 

“…That’s a tempting invitation, but as a marine magic officer, I prefer my old friend alcohol—easier on the lungs. I already have some rum, so my request is a nice scotch.” 

An unexpectedly pricey request. 

Will the returns be worth it? Still, if I don’t invest, there won’t be any returns at all. 

There’s no choice but to commit. 

“Understood, Colonel. I’ll have it ready before your next operation. So…” 

“You’re saying I should tell you when the next operation is? You know I can’t do that, Andrew. Just find a bottle and keep it handy.” 

He got me. It’s my loss. I didn’t think my ploy would work, but you can’t blame me for trying… And sure enough, the colonel knows how to spot a trap when he sees one. 

On top of that, all I got in return was a verbal promise, but I still take him up on it. Since I said I would make it happen, I can’t very well tell him I won’t have it in time. Nothing is more despised than the promise of a journalist who can’t keep their word. 

I’ll have to hurry and procure a taste of home somehow. 

“All right, Colonel. I’ll have it for you in time for your operation.” 

“Oh? Then if you don’t mind…I’ll take that bottle right now.” 

“What?” 

I’m bewildered as Drake smiles in amusement and places a hand on my shoulder. 

“Andrew, I’m giving a briefing for a joint operation with the Federation today. In the large lecture hall at 1700. Looking forward to that scotch.” 

He won this round, no doubt about it. 

After luring me in with a roundabout conversation, he’s managed to get me to make a careless promise, too. As a journalist, the moment you recognize that you’ve let your source get the better of you, there’s nothing to do but feel ashamed. 

“Colonel, this isn’t very sportsmanlike. You fight dirty.” 

“Consider it your tuition, young man. Now then, the clock’s ticking. You’re going to prove to me you’re not a lying newshound, right?” 

THE SAME DAY, THE LARGE LECTURE HALL, 1700 

I figure the Federation Communist Party must be ventriloquists. Maybe the shocking headline could read, An Amusing Puppet Show: Even at War, Federation Maintains Sense of Humor and Tradition. 

When someone tells me the interpreter at the press conference will be a woman, I’m surprised. My initial reaction is that, in at least one way, the Federation can be quite liberal. I admit I’m impressed. 

But the moment I hear her title, any favorable impressions—or perhaps pitiful notions—get obliterated by heavy artillery fire. The fact that it’s a political officer who’s taking the stage to lead the conference proves the Communists have a very poor grasp of public relations. 

Officially, a Federation Army colonel named Mikel will lead the conference, but since he isn’t fluent in the language of the Commonwealth, this political officer is supposed to serve as his “interpreter.” Of course, I understand the need to overcome the language barrier. It’s natural to have an interpreter. 

But sending a political officer to do the job makes for an awfully explicit statement. 

“All right, it’s time, so I’d like to begin. I’m First Lieutenant Tanechka, and I’ll be interpreting for the colonel today.” 

The pair speaks in turns. 

Everything must be following a preset program. You could call it an indescribable jumble of a theatrical production—third-rate performers acting out a fourth-rate script. 

Is Lieutenant Tanechka interpreting? Or is she the only one truly speaking? I can only assume the latter. 

“The colonel will give a rough outline of the upcoming joint operation that will be conducted by Federation and Commonwealth units.” 

Commonwealth language in a strong Russy accent. For one of those notorious political officers, her pronunciation is actually quite good, but should I praise her or request a proper interpreter? This is a problem. 

I’ve noticed how she chooses her words carefully. 

I expected propaganda would be involved in any press conference where foreign journalists are invited to cover the multinational unit’s plans to launch a counterattack. Still, it’s a mystery why the Federation doesn’t understand that having a political officer interpret will have the opposite intended effect. 

I change gears. 

There aren’t any other WTN correspondents present. I can’t afford to get distracted and miss something. The news desk back home frightens me more than any Federation Army political officer ever could. 

I scribble furiously in my notebook, noting the main points of the slightly difficult-to-follow briefing. 

“The situation is as thus: The Federation Army, who must repel the invaders on behalf of the people, will work alongside the Commonwealth Army and other allies and comrades to initiate a major counterattack.” 

A tidy explanation. Perhaps they have some knowledge of media relations after all, but there’s still too much extraneous material for it to be truly easy to understand. 

After removing the empty words included for dramatic effect, wouldn’t We’re going to counterattack together suffice? 

“The ultimate goal is to retake the land of the people. Our main objective will be to drive out the invaders, who are none other than the Imperial Army.” 

As far as I can tell, after peeling back all the overwrought phrasing, it seems like a straightforward plan. They want to contain the Imperial Army, establish a bridgehead, and secure a path that would be a prelude to future operations. 

“That is all. Are there any questions?” 

Allowing time for Q and A seems rather progressive for the Federation. Would posing critical questions to a political officer be considered a breach of etiquette? …I feel conflicted in spite of myself, but for better or worse, my ambitious colleagues seem unconcerned. 

One brave soul thrusts a hand up. 

“I’m with East-West News. I heard that the Imperial Army is gathering in the south. I’d like to hear the Federation Army’s thoughts on that situation.” 

“As you pointed out, the Imperial Army is threatening cities to the south, but we’re already digging in for a defensive battle. While keeping imperial forces pinned down there, we’ll counterattack here. Imperial lines should be pushed back substantially as a result.” 

A faint sigh escapes the press corps. It’s the sound of disappointment at hearing an answer that seems proper at first glance but actually says nothing. What everyone wants to know is whether the Federation thinks they can defend the cities or not. 

Are people in the Federation just not very eager to please? The political officer onstage got us all excited but then refuses to give a straight answer. 

Having apparently abandoned the customary restraint when questioning women, the insistent East-West News correspondent looses a second shot. 

“How likely is the defense to succeed? The imperial units are massing rapidly, so is there any truth to the rumors that the southern lines are in trouble?” 

“I’m unfortunately not at liberty to discuss the movements of our forces in detail due to operational security concerns, as per the colonel’s earlier statements.” 

She adds the bit about quoting the colonel at the end of her reply as if it was a complete afterthought. This Lieutenant Tanechka could have at least pretended to confirm that with him…but the colonel simply had a blank look on his face. Does he even understand the Q and A proceedings? 

Perhaps only God knows for certain, but the entire press corps is already treating it as all but confirmed. 

“I’d like to hear directly from the colonel, if that’s all right. If you don’t mind, could you give even a general answer?” 

“Apologies, but the colonel doesn’t speak the language  of the Commonwealth.” 

She requests that he hold back any similar questions in a tone that’s mild while also being a firm nonresponse. Even though she could have just as easily checked with the colonel. 

What’s going on? Right as I start worrying, a man puts his hand up. 

“I’m with the Times. Would it still be an issue if I speak the Federation’s language?” The moment after the nice chap says that, he fluently belts out a stream of words that must be Federation language—a brilliant blow. 

Judging from the political officer’s face, which looks like a pigeon that’s been shot by a peashooter, our hosts didn’t think any of us reporters could speak their language. 

She can’t very well claim that a colonel in the Federation Army can’t understand the Federation’s official language. 

Her expression definitely went stiff for a second there, but she quickly regains her composure. 

She strides over to the colonel, leans toward his ear, pretends to ask him something, and then calmly quibbles appropriately. “…Comrade Colonel says that without a trained linguist, he fears there could be an unintended misunderstanding…” 

“So you mean…?” 

“Since your mother tongue isn’t the Federation language, it’s best that we continue the press conference in your native language.” 

It’s an utterly garbage excuse, but from her attitude, it’s clear that she has no intention of backing down. The venue fills with sighs once more. 

“All right, all right. I understand. In that case, I have a different question.” When the political officer gestures for the man from the Times to go ahead, he asks, “Why is it we aren’t authorized to cover the southern lines?” 

“It’s mainly a matter of your safety.” 

“Come on now. We’re embedded reporters. As long as we’re on the front lines, anywhere we go is pretty much—” 

Before he could finish saying the same, the political officer cuts him off. “Please understand that security and safety measures are a necessity. I truly regret having to insist on such restrictive precautions, but the fact of the matter is, we’re at war. That being said…” She goes on to tell a joke with a straight face. If she intended to kill us with laughter, then it’s a smashing success. “While the Communist Party would ideally always strive to facilitate open and transparent news coverage, we’d like you to understand that we can’t always follow through on that principle during these extraordinary circumstances.” 

The true difficulty of this moment is trying to suppress our laughter. 

Apparently, there are as many Communists who love freedom of the press as there are gentlemen who hate tea. 

Lieutenant Tanechka’s remark belongs in the liar hall of fame. The only reason us journalists are allowed to enter the country at all is thanks to the extraordinary circumstances known as war. That’s the real deviation from the norm. 

I guess the atmosphere finally gets to me, because my hand goes up after all. 

“…Can I ask something else?” 

The offer must have been music to her ears. The political officer nods happily, looking overjoyed to be free of the previous pain in the neck. 

“I’m Andrew from WTN. We’re authorized to report on this counterattack, correct?” 

“Yes, that’s right.” 

“What kind of restrictions will there be?” 

Lieutenant Colonel Drake and the Federation Army officer exchange glances; after they communicate something with their eyes, the political officer nods with a tired look on her face. 

Is that a sign of some disagreement? Or is there something she isn’t in a position to say? 

Drake takes a step forward and speaks up. “I’ll field this question. To put it plainly, there are three limitations you’ll be under while covering this operation, so please listen closely.” We nod and wait for him to continue. “First, we don’t want you sending any dispatches on the movements of the Federation Army or the multinational unit as they are happening. I’m not so vain that I want my whereabouts broadcasted to the Imperial Army in the news.” 

Just as the laugh he gets warms up the room a bit, he adds, “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t ask this of you, but…” 

He continues with a heavy, grave expression, “There will be censors. This will be necessary for the protection of military secrets.” 

“Will the Federation side be doing the censoring?” 

“Communications inspectors from both the Commonwealth and the Federation will be handling it. Before you ask: No, we will not be using personnel shortages as an excuse to slow things down.” 

They’re endeavoring to make the screening process quick and convenient. In exchange, he asks us to make a compromise—for the safety of all involved. 

“Secondly, and this is related, but…we want you to report from headquarters. I’m sure there are quite a few brave Tommies among you, but neither the people of the Federation nor the government in the home country has any desire to place you boys and girls in the trenches.” 

We reluctantly nod. This means there’ll be a specific zone where we can report from, and we aren’t meant to stray from it. As someone with experience as an embedded reporter, I understand that it’s a reasonable request. Ultimately, there will probably be a nonzero number of journalists who strike deals to be exempt or find other ways to slip away. Soldiers have their way of doing things, and we have ours. 

Up until this point, Drake has been speaking at a good clip, but he explicitly pauses to clear his throat before raising the last point. “Finally, those with cameras and recorders will be accompanied by Federation Army guides and only allowed to record or film when given the okay.” 

Urgh. Surely he knew that we weren’t about to take this last point lying down. Before the predictable objections start flying, he beats us to the punch and reemphasizes his point. 

“The Commonwealth and Federation have agreed to these terms, so…please understand that your press badge hinges on following the rules.” 

You just had to add that last bit, huh? Getting told our permission to report can be taken away is enough to make all of us hesitate, but it’s impossible for any self-respecting journalist to not have strong feelings about these conditions. 

Drake pays our voiceless stares of discontent no mind and flashes a smile. “Well, that’s all from me. Was that to your satisfaction?” 

What the hell? The colonel clearly directed that at the political officer! 

On the surface, the colonel’s attitude seems normal, but can no one from the Federation tell just how incredibly sarcastic he’s being? 

“Yes, there should be no objections to what Comrade Colonel and yourself have said, Lieutenant Colonel Drake.” 

“Very good. Then if you’ll excuse me, Comrade Colonel.” 

Playing out the string to the very end, the officer of the Commonwealth Army presents a formal salute and the empty words Comrade Colonel to the political officer. 

It seems the lieutenant colonel is finding it difficult to hide his distaste for her any longer. 

Even when communicating through an interpreter, common etiquette dictates that you should speak directly to the other party. Anyone with any diplomatic experience would know that. 

That brazen breach of manners must have been an expression of how unamusing the colonel finds these proceedings. He’s the type to make a name for himself in tough situations. 

What a mess… 

I let a small sigh slip out. 

I still owe the man scotch. I’ll have to get it even if I need to beg an esteemed friend and colleague from a different firm for a bottle. It’ll be exorbitantly expensive, I’m sure, but money is no substitute for trust. Hanging by the shreds of my honor, I have no choice but to go crying to my rivals. 

A genuine bottle of scotch from home is unbelievably costly—I end up having to surrender a scoop in exchange—but I secure the goods from East-West News. This isn’t something I can report back to the news desk, so I just have to swallow it as the cost of doing business; not long after, I give the bottle to Drake. 

In the pit of my stomach, I know there’s nothing I can do but try to bounce back from my failure, so I explore the compound in search of stories. 

But stories aren’t so easy to find. After a few days of this, I get so used to it all that I’m basically just leisurely strolling around the base. Still, it isn’t as if there are no crumbs, and in any case, this is more productive than lazing around the whole day. 

As I begin to wither away in a borderline depressive state, a cheery Lieutenant Colonel Drake strikes up a conversation after approaching me. 

“Morning, Andrew. And a belated thanks for the scotch. Can I ask where you got it?” 

“One of the other reporters gave me a bottle. It was terribly expensive…” 

“Ha-ha-ha,” he laughs with a courteous demeanor that’s far removed from the straitlaced attitude he showed at the press conference. 

It’s probably genuine, but frustratingly, he’s also the type who refuses to open up during an interview. He’s already gotten the better of me once, but I still want to drag some sort of story out of him. 

“…Ngh.” 

“Colonel?” 

I ask him what’s wrong, but he just starts scanning the area uneasily with his brow furrowed. 

Could this be a…? 

“Warning! Mana detected!” 

The alarm goes off as shouts ring out in the compound, confirming my premonition. 

In the same way that tension shoots through a trench line, the Commonwealth mages grab their gear in a panic and rush out. The moment I see that, I know what’s happening. 

“Andrew, you guys take shelter!” Drake shouts before he races away. I appreciate the thought, but is he joking? I’d be disqualified as an embedded reporter if I ran away to hide during such a perfect opportunity. I gleefully turn my gaze on the commotion. 

Evidently, things look bad. 

“Shit! They’re going to reach us first?!” 

The duty officer’s cry gets answered by another yell. “We have a code match! They’re from the Lergen Kampfgruppe!” 

“Get ready! Send up mages to intercept!” 

“How many are there?!” 

“It’s a company of enemy mages! They’re closing at speed! A company from the Lergen Kampfgruppe!” 

From what I can gather, we’ve been beaten to the punch. 

The besieged enemy has launched a counterattack. These sorts of attacks were a daily event on the Rhine; it’s clear that east or west, the imperials are an industrious lot. 

“Shit! If they’re on the defensive, can’t they just sit tight and defend their positions like they’re supposed to?!” 

“Start putting rounds downrange! Argh, what were the guys on the perimeter doing?!” 

“Round up the translators on the double! The Federation Army’s—shit—does anyone know what they’re saying?!” 

Multinational units are vulnerable to this sort of communication breakdown. Unlike on the Rhine, where it was virtually all Republican soldiers, the chaos is being exacerbated by the mixture of Federation, Commonwealth, former Entente Alliance, Dacian, and even Unified States forces. 

Even against a small number of mages, this is no good. 

They got us right where they want us. I shake my head as I watch the disorganized response. Then I peer up to see what sort of attackers we are dealing with. An enemy mage unit is dancing in the Federation sky. I mostly want to see whether I can get a good look at who the enemy is. 

“Hmm?” 

I only glanced up out of curiosity, but I catch a glimpse of something flying high above us that doesn’t belong there. I have no words. 

Unless my eyes are failing me, there’s definitely a child zipping around up there. 

If anything, it would probably be more accurate to say a child mage. 

The flying figure is only a speck, so it’s possible I misjudged due to the distance, but I can’t help but notice this apparent child is sized very differently compared to nearby combatants. 

The enemy mage looks so small. 

I reach for my camera and instinctually train the lens on this point of interest. 

I can’t get the shot in focus… 

Right as I am struggling to take the picture that would undoubtedly be my biggest scoop, I feel a stern grip on my shoulder. 

“Mister…” 

“What?!” 

As you can see, I’m a little busy! 

“Kindly put your camera away.” 

It’s only then that I finally realize the friendly guides aren’t addressing me in their rough approximation of Queen’s dialect without a reason. Despite the ongoing battle, they’ve surrounded me, and I realize very quickly that they’re saying please only as a formality. 

“…You’re saying I can’t take a picture of that?” 

When I’m met with the stubborn silence of the nodding Federation guides, I sigh faintly. I figure I won’t be getting off with a simple Sorry, I won’t do it again. 

As expected, one of them holds out a hand. 

“May I have your film?” 

“…Okay. But you’ll give me a new roll, right?” 

“Of course.” 

Good-bye, scoop. 

Good-bye, story that would have covered my debt and then some. 

Ah, these sons of bitches. 

And so my big scoop is torn from my grasp, the film shredded before my very eyes. 

If I get another chance, I’ll have to pay careful attention to my surroundings and shoot more stealthily…but by the time I have that thought, it’s too late. The attacking imperial troops are already withdrawing. The Lergen Kampfgruppe must have been happy just to harass us a little. 

Give me a break. 

All I want is to send the news desk a proper story. 

Acting on problematic impulses doesn’t help in wartime. In a siege that drags on and on without a single interesting development, an embedded reporter like me is worse than helpless. I have no choice but to settle in for the long haul. 

With nothing to do, I wind up with too much time on my hands. 

After all, there’s no leisure to be found in the garrison. Trying to sneak out of the compound in search of a story would only get me stopped by our handlers. Contrary to their courteous demeanors, they aren’t the slightest bit open to any kind of bargaining, so my activities are severely limited. 

Far from devoting myself to stimulating work, I spend most of my time searching out any sort of stimulation I could scrape together from my daily life. 

The logical conclusion of that manifests in all the journalists with nothing better to do regularly coming together for what’s supposed to be a “little drink” after perfunctorily picking at our early dinners in the canteen. 

The thrill of combat that had been so exciting when we first arrived on the eastern front has become just another part of the background noise. Once things settle down, we slip into routine and soon enough find the daily boredom almost intolerable. 

Given the circumstances, the topic of discussion at our gatherings is decided in advance: the war situation and nothing else. 

A reporter from the Times wonders how the siege battle will play out, and everyone chimes in. Opinions vary, but the most widely supported theory is Even if the enemy is bold, as long as we have more fighting power, then… 

“They burned Arene. The Empire won’t hesitate to do whatever it takes, and that probably goes for the Federation, too.” 

“…Then this’ll be over quite soon, I imagine?” 

I disturb the optimistic atmosphere by raising my doubts. “I’m not so sure. This is just my impression, but it seems like there are fewer shells falling here than back on the Rhine.” 

I’m aware that it’s merely my own perspective, but I don’t get the feeling our enemy will fold so easily. An unpleasant feeling, or maybe you could call it something like a fearsome energy, seems to waft over from the imperial positions. 

Is there some sort of beast lurking over there? 

“Everyone who was on the Rhine feels the same, huh?” 

“That’s only natural.” 

Though my gut feeling isn’t specific enough to lend itself to words or an argument, I can’t discount my senses. 

A downpour of shells. 

The Rhine lines were truly hell. There’s no way to describe it but as a land where shells constantly rained from the sky. The unending sound of the artillery barrages on the Rhine was like rolling thunder. 

Even with that unbelievably massive amount of metal turning the earth into a pockmarked landscape like the surface of the moon, the lines on the Rhine never moved. Though I’m ashamed to say so as a reporter, describing with words what skulked across those lands is extremely difficult. The moment you give it a label, its horror is diluted, and you become convinced you might come to understand what is in fact an incomprehensible monster. 

In the end, I’m not sure what to say to my colleagues, so instead, I tell benign tales of things I’ve experienced. 

“These imperial soldiers can survive even in nothing but a shell hole on the Rhine. I doubt we can eradicate them here.” 

“Would you bet on that, Andrew?” 

“I make it a point not to bet on human lives. Winning a wager that my allies will die would just ruin the taste of my drink.” 

“Whoa, there. Surely it’s not quite that bad, right?” 

“Let me remind you that I was there on the Rhine front.” 

And I covered war in the trenches. I learned about war through the things I saw. I also learned that the only certainty is uncertainty. 

“Once you see imperials counterattack after enduring a fifty-hour Republican preparatory barrage, you’ll understand, too.” 

It’s easy enough to describe, but having witnessed that very scene myself, the words simply don’t do it justice. 

“But then… Crap, another alarm?” 

It’s the siren from the previous enemy attack. 

The relaxed atmosphere that has been surrounding the press corps immediately gives way to the sharp desire for a story and ambition; everyone leaps up with their pen and camera at the ready. It’s only natural to try to get the jump on your colleagues if a good photo may come from it. 

We’ve got to reach the front line…is what everyone’s thinking, but we’re quickly met with an unexpected scene. 

“Here they come! Just as we thought!” 

One of the mages shouts. It’s too loud to miss, and when we hear it, we exchange glances. 

“…So efficient this time.” 

Frankly, I feel like they’re too efficient. The base should have been a chaotic scramble of different languages, but the atmosphere is all too orderly. 

Though it isn’t business as usual per se, the troops are more “active” than panicked. 

That means… 

“They expected an attack?” 

Someone murmurs what we’re all thinking. Evidently, this is elementary encirclement battle stuff. Thankfully, I’ll be able to send home a dispatch that communicates some semblance of the tension…but my work here is still undoubtedly lackluster. 

I’ve reached the point where I really need to just drag something out of Drake. I make up my mind to approach him more forcefully. I know it might be rough to approach so directly after we just saw combat, but when things seem to settle down to an extent, I head over to the barracks with some cigarettes and alcohol to meet the man—and what good timing that turns out to be. 

Perhaps he was enjoying a modest victory celebration? Because by the time I get there, a bottle is open on his desk. A journalist’s best friend is already hard at work loosening the lips of my target. 

“Hey, Andrew. I figured it was about time for you to show up.” 

Letting his confidence peek out ever so slightly, Drake savors a sip from his glass. If he’s drinking, he must be off duty. Is he unwinding from the stress of combat? 

I figure this is the perfect opportunity and sit with him. 

“Did you know ahead of time that the enemy would attack today?” 

“It’s not as if we’re hiding the fact, you know, but yes. We were fully prepared for them.” 

“Nice work seeing through their plan. How did you know they were coming?” 

“Andrew, that’s a military secret. If you’re trying to interview me, stop it.” 

“Please. Help a fellow out.” 

When I insist, he smiles wryly and takes another sip. “If you must know, then I’ll say that it’s the result of carefully analyzing the Lergen Kampfgruppe and its commander’s past actions.” 

That isn’t a real answer. It certainly isn’t the kind of answer I should have to struggle for; anyone back home reading my articles by their cozy fireplaces could have guessed that much on their own. 

But the word Kampfgruppe catches my attention. 

“By the way, I’ve been wondering: What exactly is a ‘Kampfgruppe’? I’m not used to the term, so I’d been wanting to ask someone knowledgeable.” 

“What? It’s fairly straightforward… Ah, but you were on the Rhine. I guess it’s not so surprising that you don’t know.” Drake grins wryly. “It’s one of the formation types the Empire has started using recently. They gather a jumble of different units under one commander to create a task force. It’s a bit like our multinational unit.” 

“So it’s different from a regiment or a brigade?” 

Drake nods. “Yes, think of it as something else entirely. The scale is comparable, but the organization is different, even if it seems similar. It’s a temporary formation created as needed, bringing together available or suitable battalions of infantry, tanks, aerial mages, and so on, regardless of their original commands.” 

“And because they’re temporary, ad hoc units…they’re identified by the name of their commander?” 

“That’s right. Which means the commander we’re dealing with is the Imperial Army’s Colonel von Lergen.” 

“To be honest, that’s not a name I’m familiar with.” 

I’m genuinely confused. I’ve never been one to brag, but I’m fairly confident I memorized all the names of the high-ranking officers serving on the front lines. 

I learned a lot paying attention while on the Rhine front, and right up until the day I was sent to the east, I stayed up-to-date by absorbing the latest reports in the news office’s reference room. I studied both enemies and allies, of course. 

“Maybe something would come up if I combed the card catalog back home, but I can’t say I’ve ever heard of him. What’s the man about?” 

“It doesn’t surprise me you don’t know of him.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“He originally worked in the heart of the Imperial Army’s General Staff. Not the sort of person anyone would naturally have an interest in unless you were already involved with the man. Above all, he’s spent most of his time in the rear, so he hasn’t had many chances to stand out.” 

“I see. So his background is in military administration, then? Hmm, I wouldn’t expect someone like that to be enthusiastic about taking to the battlefield.” 

“You may want to brush up on your knowledge of the army, Andrew. These guys are bureaucrats, it’s true, but they’re staff officers by nature. In other words, these fellows aren’t to be taken lightly. Whether or not he was one of the top strategic minds in Operations, there’s no doubt that he’s a brilliant tactician.” 

“You say that, but he’s a pro from the rear, right? I heard that most of those guys just sit pretty at their tidy desks and are gone as soon as it’s time to clock out.” 

Know-it-alls who spout theories they have no idea how to put into practice—armchair commanders. 

Recalling the frank, crude insults the Commonwealth troops often directed at people who were supposedly professionals, it isn’t difficult to imagine the type. 

“Criticisms you heard in the home country, I guess? Unfortunately, it seems that people from the Empire are different. You can tell just by looking; they’re prepared to stubbornly defend their urban centers to the last, but any areas that aren’t defensible quickly get abandoned at the drop of a hat. Their defenses are unrefined…and pragmatic.” 

There’s a hint of tension in Drake’s voice. He may have simply just been on guard against a mysterious enemy, but something about the way he talked makes it sound more concrete than that. 

“You mean they’re formidable?” 

“The chaps over at Imperial Operations must all be horrible people.” 

“Can they really be that bad…? Honestly, the Federation Army’s official briefing made it sound like it would be an easy win.” 

I can smell a scoop. I’m aware that the Communist Party is concerned with appearances, but could they be so obsessed, they would allow it to disrupt coordination and communication with the Commonwealth forces that have been deployed here? That would make for a compelling story. 

…Well, it’d either end up censored or prohibited from broadcasting. 

I figure I can at least tuck it away as an interesting tidbit. Maybe it’ll come in handy later. 

“Do you think this will be a difficult fight, Colonel Drake? Frankly, the way the enemy mages come hopping at us like frogs is enough to make me anxious.” 

“There’s no doubt the advantage is ours. Even in terms of forces committed to the siege, we have three divisions against their lone Kampfgruppe. Adding in the other Federation troops stationed in the area, we completely outnumber them.” 

Yes, hearing that makes it obvious that, at a glance, our side’s combat strength easily outstrips the enemy’s. If anything, the battle should end in a crushing victory. 

“Despite that, they don’t waver.” 

“…You mean they’re expecting relief, Colonel?” 

He nods as if to say, Exactly. “We’re on guard against it. But honestly, I wonder.” 

“About what?” 

In response to my question, the corners of Drake’s mouth perk up into a slight smile. “Just so you know, this is strictly between us. I’m not telling you because I want you to blab this secret to everyone.” 

“I understand, Colonel.” 

“Good.” Drake nods. “The Imperial Army shouldn’t have enough reserves to wring out any more reinforcements… If they’re already gathering forces in the south while simultaneously planning to break through the encirclement here…” 

“Even the Empire must be getting stretched thin?” 

“More like ‘especially the Empire.’” 

When the look in my eyes tells him I don’t understand why, he shrugs in disappointment. 

Honestly, I feel like I’m being treated like a child… I should try asking, at least. 

“Uhhh, Colonel Drake. Would you care to enlighten me as to why you think that?” 

“Andrew, have you forgotten why you’re here? The Empire, a single country, is waging a war against the rest of the world.” 

“You mean they’ve reached their limit?” 

“Well, if you get that much, this’ll go faster. Setting aside the question of whether we should be surprised that they’re capable of waging war with the world or laugh at them for being stupid enough to attempt it…listen,” he says and continues with a solemn expression. “In the end, it’s an issue of maths.” 

“Maths?” I wince. “Back home, I was so bad, I made my teacher Mr. Johan sigh in frustration, so I’d appreciate it if you keep it simple.” 

“There’s nothing that’s hard to wrap your head around. All you have to do is compare populations. No matter what kind of magic the Empire tries to use, there’s a limit to how much of the population can be turned into soldiers.” 

“…And now they must be approaching that limit.” 

That has to be it. Even someone who can squeeze out a win fighting five opponents at once will be defeated if they face six. No matter how powerful the Imperial Army is, their homeland is failing on the diplomatic and political fronts. But the most surprising thing is their response. Even under these circumstances, the Empire seems to want to continue fighting. 

Could it be that war has a harmful effect on the human mind? 

“Much more of this, and they’ll be using children as soldiers!” 

I nearly blurt out that I saw one. 

My scoop, including the film I used to shoot it, has already been scrapped by a Federation overseer. 

Furthermore, the replacement film I received is of questionable quality. When I finally got in the darkroom and was able to develop some pictures, they came out so awful, I wanted to cry. 

Sadly, that’s what life tends to be like during total war. The Federation’s film may be poor, but at least they haven’t started resorting to child soldiers…that I know of. I can’t see any fronts besides the one I’m on, so I can’t say for sure. 

Still, it has to be better than the Empire, where kids are sortieing with guns. 

“I beg your pardon, Colonel, but if they’re that strapped, it’s already checkmate, isn’t it? Doesn’t that mean our victory is near?” 

“That’s what you’d think, right?” 

“Yes.” I nod. Logically speaking, it seems like the Empire would have to give up soon. 

“You really are a sensible guy.” 

All I can do is nod again. “Mm…” 

“But imperials, they’re all liable to be crazy. Do me a favor and remember that.” 

“…On that note, I’d like to interview a sensible Commonwealth soldier. How about it?” When I hold out my notebook like a mic, Drake winces. 

“Aside from the volunteer mages from the Entente Alliance, you can question anyone you like. But haven’t you been doing that from the beginning anyway? Don’t be shy. If you need an introduction, I’ll be happy to oblige. Who do you want to talk to?” 

“Colonel, if you get it, then…” 

“You want me to get you an interview with the volunteers? Could you please not prod the wounds of people who had to witness the fall of their country? There’s a direct connection between the mental state of mages and how they perform on the battlefield. You saw that for yourself on the Rhine, didn’t you, Andrew?” 

There’s nothing I can say in response to that. 

“Hmm. To point you in a different direction…I’ll give you a hint.” 

“I’d appreciate it. What do you have for me?” 

I was hoping for a lead, but the colonel responds in a grave voice. 

“Do you know about the Imperial Army lieutenant general called Zettour?” 

“Hmm? Errr, I’m sure I’ve heard the name before. Let me try to remember… I think he manages rail?” 

I don’t know much about him at all. It isn’t that he’s unimportant or anything, but he just seems like one of those run-of-the-mill mid-level officers without much else to him. In any case, he clearly didn’t leave a very big impression, because the name doesn’t ring many bells. 

“That’s too bad. He’s a man you’d do well to remember.” 

“Okay.” 

Is that all? I let his words go in one ear and out the other. Flinging some random factoids around is a pretty sloppy way to distract a reporter… 

Remembering the past, I smile wryly in the present. 

“Telling me to remember that name really was good advice.” 

…But at the time, my younger self ignored it.