Meeting the Monkeys

Snow was falling.

Over the vast Manchurian plain, which was strewn with the carnage of war in a way it never had been before, the snow settled thickly, covering everything — the earth, the dead, the beasts, the obscenely gaping shell craters — without discrimination.

The battle had lulled.

Once the cannon fire that had tormented the world every minute of every day faded into intermittent thunder, the Russian and Japanese armies dug trenches, lit bonfires, and evacuated their wounded.

And then—

"Ahh, war. Just war. Not a thing will come tomorrow either. Dried fish, three yen a bundle. Dried fish, three yen."

Seizing this opening, the merchants shuttled between the two armies, making money hand over fist.

Even the most stern, solemn, serious-minded man brimming with soldierly spirit can hardly live on three square meals of army slop, can he?

Capitalism, ho!

Truly, capitalism is great — and no one on earth can refuse Matdashi or Gonghwachun, or a proper bowl of jjambbong.

The merchants loaded up jerky and dried fish and sweet little snacks and bustled back and forth between the two armies, raking in the coin.

"Let's raise the price of the dried fish and jerky around here, eh?"

"No."

"The Japanese can't live without fish and the Russians can't live without meat! Now's the time to fleece 'em good!"

"And when those bastards come storming into this Fengtian with bayonets fixed? You want to make one season's profit and take a bullet hole in the belly for it?"

"Tch."

I dismounted, leaving behind the remarkable spectacle of Manchurian merchants — dressed in Qing robes or Western suits, or a half-and-half blend of the two worn together like a mixed-rice bowl — huddled together and whispering among themselves.

"Ah! Young Tae-oh's come!"

"Master Ziyun. Have you been in good health since we parted?"

"Of course! And it's thanks to you."

"Haha, what did I ever do to deserve the praise?"

"Those Russian devils, menaces though they are, just leave the people of our Fengtian alone, don't they?"

Strange. I'd possessed Seo Hui to negotiate with the Russians over the six districts east of the Yalu, sure, but the only person who knew that was Zhang Zuolin, wasn't it?

"You ask because you don't know? There isn't another soul in this whole land with your kind of knack, is there?"

The image of Zhang Jinghui and the hundred-and-one fools who followed him floated up into my head.

Mmm. Airtight logic. Can't argue with that.

"Did you prepare what I asked for?"

"Of course! You think this Zhang Ziyun survived past sixty as a merchant for nothing? To survive is to be strong, my boy."

The old man laughed heartily and called over the men who worked under him, and several of them came out leading donkeys laden with goods.

"Wool, one thousand bales. Horsehide, one thousand. Assorted furs, bundled and bound, five thousand."

"Perfect. I honestly didn't expect you to have all of it ready in one go."

"Think nothing of it. This whole Manchuria is nothing but pastureland and steppe, and hasn't logistics been slammed shut for a good while because of the war? For the shepherds and drovers of Mongolia and the grasslands, this is truly the first windfall to come their way in ages."

Which meant I'd been able to drive the price down hard.

Zhang Ziyun chuckled and added one more thing.

"Skin 'em for all they're worth."

"I've already fleeced the Russians. You think I can't fleece the Japanese?"

"Heh heh. Fair enough. Still, do look after yourself."

With a bow of the head as my answer, I climbed back into the saddle, cupped my hands, and let out a long whistle. As the donkeys hauling the enormous cargo and the merchants holding their reins began filing onto the road one by one, I took up my own reins and fell in beside them.

"Little officer, sir. That's where the Jap devils are camped."

"So it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would seem."

Watching that enormous Rising Sun banner fluttering in the distance through my binoculars made my chest feel tight and my temper sour.

So this is that learned motherfuckery they talk about.

I put the binoculars away and pulled my scarf up over the bridge of my nose, muffling the lower half of my face like a neck warmer. This Manchuria overflows with dairy and meat, so I'd never wanted for nutrition and my frame had slowly been filling out — but my face was still boyish, and if I didn't cover it up, people were all too liable to look down on me.

"Shouldn't some kind of patrol come bounding out of there by now?"

"No, sir. These days ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Jap devils are worn clean down to the bone, so they just let things slide. We've been trading with them a fair while, too."

"I see. Still, better safe than sorry — let's hoist the white flag a little higher."

"Yes, sir, officer."

We drove our horses and donkeys right up to the nose of the Japanese garrison.

"Halt. Halt."

Only once we were close enough to make out faces did the Japanese soldiers slouch out with rifles in hand, wearing expressions of profound confusion.

It was exactly the face of a sergeant who'd been called in for maintenance duty on a Sunday.

"What do you lot ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠want?"

"Heheh, Your Honor, why so worked up? Come now, no need for—"

"Eh, what's the harm? ...Ahhem."

Manchurian traders, for reasons known only to themselves, cheerfully stuffing jerky into the wide-open hardtack pouches of Japanese soldiers.

Are these guys really an army in an actual shooting war?

And what on earth kind of Russian force is getting torn apart by dopes like these?

—Then again, this is the Manchuria-Western, where you can convert a former bandit gang into sheriffs and army officers, so by comparison, this much falls squarely within the plausible range.

Truly, the amazing 20th century.

Just then, someone gave the thigh of the mounted me a couple of light pats with a hand.

"Hey. Who are you? You don't seem like a trader."

"I'm an officer of the Shengjing Central Army. I've come because I have words for your army, and I'd like them relayed up to your division staff. Can you manage that?"

"A Ch-Chinese officer? ...One moment, please."

The soldier, flustered by the unexpected development, sprinted off toward one of the buildings and promptly reappeared trailing a non-commissioned officer.

"A Chinese officer? Is that correct?"

"That's right."

"...And, er, on what business?"

"That I can only disclose to your senior officers, per the chain of command."

"...I'll pass the word up. In the meantime, come inside."

Why, though?

The Japanese army I knew should have been unsheathing katanas and bellowing, 'You Shina dog! How dare you demand an audience with a senior officer of the Imperial Army!' — shouldn't it?

Just as I was quietly releasing my grip on the pistol I'd been clutching inside my coat pocket in case of trouble, one of the traders sidled up and whispered.

"The Jap dev—ahem. The Japanese, see, they're still half-fixated on worshipping samurai or whatever, so it seems they don't give officers the brush-off."

Ah. So that's it.

The residue hasn't fully drained from an era when a samurai — a walking premeditated sword-crime — would drop to his knees and bow at every neighbor he passed on the street.

Now that I think of it, we are sitting exactly between the Meiji Restoration and the Second World War. And society, right down the middle of that same span.

Curiosity satisfied, I clasped my hands behind my back with due gravity and followed the NCO into the camp.

But still.

The deeper I went into the Japanese camp, the more I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd become Eulji Mundeok walking into the Sui army's camp.

Cold enough to die of it.

This duty is absolute shit.

I'm starving.

I want to go home. Except they're never going to let us, are they.

"You dogs! How many times have I told you not to sing that song!"

"Sir, yessirrrr!"

Sparing neither privates nor officers, the depression-fairies had been haunting the Japanese camp for months now.

They'd bellowed about the fate of the Empire hanging in the balance and cracked down on military discipline more than once or twice, but with the lull dragging on month after month, no amount of hollering did any good anymore.

The only things the daily reports ever brought were grim tidings — how many frozen corpses had been recovered, how many men had toes amputated from frostbite.

And so a certain Japanese division commander, about to begin another bleak day no different from the last, frowned at the report from his staff officer.

"Someone's come?"

"A Chinese officer bearing a white flag has arrived, sir."

"Why would a Shina dog come here?"

A staff officer's lot is to keep his wits and his reason leashed at all times. Turning the problem over in his head, the staff officer answered.

"I couldn't rightly say, sir?"

"What?"

"Well — if he were an envoy dispatched by the Chinese government in Beijing, he ought to head for Imperial General Headquarters, not us. And if he were a soldier of this region, then why on earth would he have hidden like a turtle pulling its head into its shell all this time, only to step forward now?"

"...Fair points."

Remarkably, because the era had not yet advanced to the Second World War, the Japanese division commander actually knew how to honor the principle of 'check with your superiors before doing something rash.' After a moment's deliberation, he spoke.

"Let's meet the man and hear him out, at least."

"Sir, yes sir!"

"...So you're the Chinese officer?"

"Yes, that's correct."

The Japanese colonel tilted his head at me in puzzlement, then sat down in the chair opposite mine and fired off his first question.

"How old is the girl Boryeong?"

"I don't know her birth year, but she's about fifteen."

"You don't know her birth year?"

"That's how every life lived and withered in this Manchuria goes. There are parents who bore her, but she'll never know their faces or their names."

Ah, right.

This is Manchuria we're in? Well, that tracks.

The Japanese colonel accepted it and nodded.

"Very well. And your rank? Second lieutenant?"

"I'm a staff officer of the Shengjing Central Patrol Guerrilla Battalion. In your army's terms, that would put me at roughly a captain."

"What? A battalion staff officer?"

"That's how every life lived and withered in this Manchuria goes, sir. I joined the army to feed myself, and it turned out there wasn't another soul in the whole land who could read."

Ah, right.

This is Manchuria we're in? Well, that tracks.

The Japanese colonel accepted it once more and nodded.

"Very well. And what business does a... captain of the Chinese army have here?"

"Our battalion commander, the honorable Zhang Zuolin, holds your nation in the deepest admiration, and so—"

Which is bullshit.

Manchuria may be a lawless hellscape, but nobody likes people blazing away at each other with rifles in their own front yard.

I let the colonel's lecture wash over me and fixed my attention on the matter at hand.

"So?"

"Our commander wishes to set aside a portion of the supplies intended for our own troops, so that they may be of aid to yours."

"Supplies? Our Imperial Army already receives plentiful provisions from the Divine Land. Some crude Chinese goods, measured against the boundless and superior provisions of the Imperial Army—"

Bullshit.

Ah — that one's my own thought this time.

Plentiful provisions? Superior provisions? From what I could see, the Japanese generals were probably out counting shell casings by hand at this very moment.

This bizarre ceasefire was proof enough of that. The only advantage the Japanese army held over the Russians was that the fighting was on their doorstep and mobilization was easy — meanwhile, the Russian reinforcements riding the Trans-Siberian Railway were being watched doing nothing but watching them come.

"Ahem. Still, the effort of coming all this way is commendable. I suppose hearing you out can do no harm."

Perhaps my reading was correct, for the colonel abandoned his blustering and cut straight to business.

"And these supplies of yours would be...?"

"Furs."

"Furs?"

The colonel's eyes drifted, without his willing it, to the coat he wore against the cold.

"Your army issues rat-skin coats for the enlisted men and rabbit-skin for the officers, doesn't it? I imagine that's rather thin gruel for the deep freeze of Manchuria. On the road here, I saw a group of soldiers shivering under a single threadbare blanket shared between them, and I confess it broke my heart."

"Now, see here. Supplies bestowed by His Majesty the Emperor Himself — how could we possibly—"

"Colonel, do you know of Guan Yu, of the olden days?"

"Of course I do."

I leaned forward wearing an expression brimming with trust, like a phone-store salesman.

"Do you remember the tale of how that god of war, Guan Yu, while serving under Cao Cao, received splendid silken garments from him?"

"Hmm. Do go on."

Cao Cao — a man who, by all appearances, took genuine pleasure in seizing other people's possessions, married women first among them — had mounted an all-out gift offensive to claim Guan Yu as well. Dozens of beauties, the Red Hare steed, mountains of gold and silver.

Sure, the one peerless beauty Guan Yu actually wanted, the married lady Du, Cao Cao couldn't bring himself to hand over — but regardless, Cao Cao dashed with everything he had, and Guan Yu parried it all.

Is that not the very picture of a loyal vassal?

"He wore Cao Cao's silks beneath, and over them the worn old coat given to him by his sworn elder brother, Liu Bei. What a beautiful old tale, is it not?"

"Mm. Indeed. The very character for loyalty made flesh."

I drew the finest sheepskin from the bundle I'd been carrying inside my coat and laid it on the table.

"Top grade, raised by Mongol herders over years. One of these will see a man through any cold snap Manchuria can throw at him."

"Ahhem. If our Imperial Army, having marched ten thousand li, dies honorably clashing with the Russkies, then that is loyalty to the Emperor, and a return to Yasukuni as gods of war — who would shirk it? But to die by General Winter and the Snow Maiden — what a hollow, meaningless death that would be."

Right. You're freezing your ass off too, aren't you?

Having concluded his lengthy exercise in self-justification, the colonel summoned his logistics staff officer at once.

The logistics officer — a major, by the look of him — no sooner absorbed my Guan Yu doctrine than he dove straight into negotiation.

"How much were you prepared to ask?"

"One hundred yen per sheet of wool."

"What? The privates make nine yen a month and you're joking!"

"It's not as if the privates will be wearing wool anyway, is it? It'll be the officers."

"Tch."

Where do men who'd cheerfully order banzai charges into machine-gun fire get off haggling over the pay of farm boys conscripted from the boonies?

And nine yen? That's the wage of a private second class — the bottom of the bottom. And these people have the audacity to try to nickel-and-dime what it took to survive in this lawless hellscape of Manchuria?

"Still too expensive."

"These were originally commissioned as military-procurement goods for our own army's use. Military-grade specifications — the price reflects that, I'm afraid."

Why are you making that face? You don't know what mil-spec is? Mil-spec? Military procurement was always expensive.

It's not as though I'm Boeing here, selling hand sanitizer at a seven-hundred-times markup — this is only ten times, I swear.

Hm. I suppose there's no help for it.

"And one more thing — this stays between us, of course, but is it truly necessary for gentlemen such as yourself — majors, colonels — to be paying out of your own pockets?"

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"And what kind of bullshit is that supposed to mean?"

December, 1904.

The treasury of the Empire of Japan ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— in other words, the Minister of Finance, the man in charge of the money — repeated the question back with a face that looked, for his age, remarkably dim.

Picture, roughly, the face of an old man who'd drained his entire severance pay to settle the debts his idiot son had piled up, only to be informed that gambling debts still remained outstanding.

"Additional expenditure? We've already given you every last yen there was to give!"

The cost of the war had blown past several years of the national budget. Government bonds and war bonds had been issued again and again. Hadn't he scraped together to the very last drop and sent it all east?

"Commander Oyama reports that the cold of Manchuria and Siberia is so savage that without additional winter clothing the soldiers will all freeze to death—"

"Then let them freeze! What does it matter how many ignorant bastards die! If we cannot end this war by early next year, we are bankrupt, I tell you!"

A nation that would order a banzai charge into machine-gun fire the moment things went sideways — disregard for human life was its constant, sure enough.

"Er... but to win, don't the soldiers first need to be in one piece? If their limbs get carved off by frostbite, how are they supposed to charge with rifles in hand? Mightn't it be wiser, just this once, to give the field commanders what they ask for?"

"Quite right, sir. If we were to lose, even once, the Empire would be finished!"

"Ah — and we're short on shells as well. We'll need to purchase ordnance from Britain or America—"

The Minister of Finance collapsed in a faint, and the 'special budget' passed.

"Hm. Warm, certainly. The Mongols do raise fine livestock."

"Indeed they do, sir."

"That division commander over in Fengtian is a rather shrewd fellow. He shows more than enough mettle to become a future pillar of the Imperial Army."

For the first time in a long while, the Japanese expeditionary force headquarters pulsed with energy.

Of the 1.9 billion yen in war expenditures, this latest outlay was a speck of dust amid specks of dust.

So they'd lumped it under 'supplies' on the books and skimmed the difference off the top.

A ten-thousand-dollar debt means tightening your belt and eating instant noodles three meals a day — but a ten-million-dollar debt? Nobody blinks if you order a whole fried chicken.

You can't pay it back honestly anyway, after all.

"So you just skim, and settle up later."

"All the will of the Empire converges here — like the single arrow of the Divine Land poured forth in full strength! A general assault now will reap a decisive victory!"

That optimistic happiness-circuit wasn't running purely on the fluffy fur coats everyone had taken to wearing beneath their uniforms.

"Lushun has fallen! The Yellow Sea is ours now!"

"We've pinpointed every Russian position."

"Shells are sufficient."

"About time we fought a battle. A general offensive next month, then."

Just as the Japanese command was engulfed in full fervor—

I turned my head and let my eyes rest on the line of merchants and their donkeys strung out in a row behind us. Much as the donkeys had grown happy under their lightened loads, looking at my own wallet and bundles, stuffed fat with Japanese taxpayers' money, sent a happiness spiral gushing up through me.

This is international trade. This is capitalism.

"Heheheh. Not that we did poorly ourselves, mind, but you and the battalion commander made an absolute killing. There'd be plenty left over even after buying several of those palatial mansions the gentry live in. Care to let an old man in on how you mean to spend it? Just a little hint, eh...?"

"Hm. Well."

I twirled the reins loosely in my hand.

I really ought to ask Master Zhang Ziyun to look into getting me a ship bound for the German Kiautschou Bay Leased Territory.