Chapter 25: The Russo-Japanese War (2)

That you can’t fight a war without money is the most basic common sense there is.

And sure enough, the wailing from Japan, now unable to secure any foreign loans, was loud enough to be heard all the way here in Russia.

“Hahaha, look at this, Misha. An intelligence report has come in from England summarizing the Japanese side’s movements. The policy of not lending money to Japan is so firm that there isn’t a soul in the City who doesn’t know it.”

“That’s good news, Your Majesty.”

“Isn’t it? Just as you said, crawling on the ground begging for a loan suits those wretches perfectly, does it not?”

The Tsar leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter; his mood was improving with each passing day.

By now it had become his daily routine to sip coffee while savoring reports of how Japan had been turned away in London and New York.

And dutifully supplying the reactions that kept the Tsar’s spirits up was the role that fell to me and Section Chief Yakov.

“Section chief, what is the current situation on the Far East front?”

“The Japanese army is advancing from the Korean Peninsula toward the Yalu River. Their strength is estimated at three divisions under General Kuroki.”

“And our side?”

“Lieutenant General Zasulich’s forces are keeping watch on the north bank of the Yalu. Reinforcements are arriving steadily via the Trans-Siberian Railway, so our strength is building up nicely.”

– At this rate they’ll just shrivel up and die on their own. Let’s start nudging him to keep things exactly as they are.

Right. As long as this setup doesn’t break, Russia wins, no question.

But isn’t it an instinct etched into our Russian friends’ DNA to start overdoing it the moment things are going well?

This wasn’t the time to relax; this was the time to tighten the reins harder than ever.

“Then shall I issue an order to switch to a counterattack at the appropriate moment?”

“I think Minister of War Kuropatkin’s policy is the right one, Your Majesty. He wants to avoid a full battle and play for time, so wouldn’t it be good if you threw your weight behind that?”

“Just play for time? Why not finish them in one blow while Japan is starving for supplies?”

“Your Majesty, for the wretches who dared challenge the great Russian Empire, wouldn’t ending it in a single battle be far too merciful a punishment?”

I’d finished learning how to coax this man-child along ages and ages ago.

Sure enough, the Tsar’s expression, which had been on the verge of souring, smoothed out at once.

“Now that you mention it….”

“Isn’t it so? These Japanese wretches don’t even have any money, yet they’re acting up and crawling all over Your Majesty’s territory. Are men like that even worth fighting? I think they aren’t worth the bullets and shells. Simply leaving them to wither and die would be the surest punishment of all.”

Let’s make them regret drawing their sword against the great Tsar until the very moment they die.

The corners of Niki’s mouth shot up to the heavens.

“Yes, yes. Trust our Misha to be the only one who thinks of the Emperor’s dignity.”

– Man, talk about hitting the mark.

“But I hear voices in the military saying we ought to counterattack… won’t the generals grow discontented if they’re made to simply sit still?”

“Japan has no money anyway, so they’ll have no choice but to grow more and more aggressive. It’s not as if we’re telling them to avoid battle forever. If we say that once the enemy comes all the way to the fortress, we’ll crush them then, I think everyone will accept it.”

“That has some sense to it as well. But by common sense, in a situation like this, might they not simply sue for peace and end the war?”

Hearing the words “common sense” come out of my old man’s mouth was genuinely surreal, but it was a fair point, as far as it went.

If that thing called common sense were still alive in them, then rather than fighting to the bitter end, the natural judgment would be to negotiate on reasonable terms and end the war.

But Japan and common sense, common sense and Japan.

No matter how the words are arranged, doesn’t something feel deeply off?

“Your Majesty, if they were a country with common sense, would they have launched a surprise attack on our Russian Empire without even a declaration of war?”

“…Huh?”

Niki froze for a moment, then slowly nodded.

“So I think Your Majesty only needs to support Minister Kuropatkin’s policy. Tell him not to be impatient, and to keep doing exactly as he is.”

“Good. So I shall.”

While Yakov received the Tsar’s approval and noted it down in his notebook, I looked at the map and coolly took stock of the current situation.

– For Kuropatkin, no order could be more heavenly than this one. Playing it passive was always that commander’s one great specialty.

In the original history, that passive policy became one of the causes of defeat, but right now that policy was the correct answer, so there was no need to touch it.

Japan’s money had already run dry, seaborne supply was impossible, and they had no choice but to advance overland.

Of course, if they just said sorry, our mistake, and ended the war here, Russia would wrap things up with little more than an indemnity, but come on, as if our Japanese friends would ever do that.

If they were the type to drop into dogeza just because the money ran out, why would Pearl Harbor ever have happened?

If they were the type who couldn’t fight without supplies, the Imphal Campaign could never have existed.

No bullets? Then they’re no doubt resolved to make a banzai charge instead. But nope, we’re absolutely not fighting them.

If they really want a brawl that badly, they can go throw themselves at the fortress.

Then maybe, just maybe, we’ll fight them.

* * *

The waters off Port Arthur, where the Russo-Japanese War had begun.

Makarov’s Pacific Fleet poked its nose out of the harbor again today.

Three battleships and five cruisers glided leisurely out of Port Arthur’s outer harbor and approached to the very edge of the Japanese fleet’s blockade line.

“Russian fleet sortieing! Three battleships, five cruisers!”

“…So it’s another round of playacting at battle before they retreat.”

Togo’s fist trembled with rage.

This was already the third time.

The third time this month alone.

Every time they came out, he had tried to force a decisive battle, but Makarov only kept repeating the same maneuver, circling at an exquisitely judged distance and then returning to harbor.

Even if Togo gave chase, he would run straight into the minefields and the range of the coastal batteries, so there was nothing to do but grind his teeth and watch.

“Shall we pursue?”

“No… don’t.”

Last time, unable to master his fury, he had given chase, and a destroyer had struck a mine.

He could hardly let the same thing happen again.

Makarov’s fleet, this time as ever, wheeled about at its leisure and slowly returned to harbor.

As if out for a stroll.

“Does the man know no shame, being a scholar by trade… For a great power that claims to stand shoulder to shoulder with Britain, what a despicable, petty way to fight.”

Naturally, on the battlefield, “despicable and petty” is the highest praise one can offer an enemy commander.

It was no different at all from telling him that his strategy was so superb they had no means of responding to it.

The truth was that no matter how meticulously Togo crafted his strategy and tactics, no method existed anywhere in the world for defeating an enemy who refused to fight.

And yet, however much they refused battle, the mere fact that that fleet remained alive was a blade severing Japan’s seaborne supply, so how could he be anything but furious.

They merely declined a full battle; whenever a transport passed near Port Arthur, a Russian cruiser would slip out and needle at it, and that was practically a daily routine.

They never attacked directly.

Just by appearing nearby and vanishing again, they forced the transports into wide detours, and every detour devoured unspeakable amounts of time and fuel.

With the war chest already scraping bottom, those extra costs worked on his own side like a lethal poison.

And the situation on the Manchurian front, far from the sea, was several times worse still.

In particular, the Japanese First Army under General Kuroki Tamemoto, preparing to cross the Yalu, was facing something close to a nightmare.

“Your Excellency, the Russians are digging fortifications.”

“Fortifications? Are they raising a large-scale field fortress?”

“No, sir. They are digging trenches, but… not deep ones, only shallow. And we have observed them constructing positions of the same type to their rear as well.”

A string of curses spilled from Kuroki’s mouth.

Digging positions in the rear as well meant they had no intention of fighting a decisive battle here; it meant they planned to fall back from the very start.

“Damn it! Cowardly bastards, the lot of them.”

“I never knew the Russians were men who feared battle this much.”

Their mouths mocked the Russian army, but the two of them were desperate to the bone.

Please, please, just fight us.

Only by winning big here and bleeding the enemy would they have a pretext to draw money out of Britain or America.

In April 1904, the Japanese army crossed the Yalu with do-or-die resolve.

But the Russians offered token resistance and simply withdrew.

“The enemy is retreating! Shall we pursue?”

“Pursue them, no matter what. Pursue and hit them hard!”

The Japanese gave frantic chase, but the enemy would not be caught.

The Russians withdrew exactly half a day’s march, and dug in again.

The next day, when the Japanese attacked, they withdrew another half day’s march and dug in yet again.

“These bastards think this is funny….”

In May, the Japanese army advanced on Fenghuangcheng.

The Russian rearguard held for only a day or two before withdrawing yet again.

Blowing the bridges, tearing up the roads, and filling in the wells as they went.

“Your Excellency. According to the lead unit’s report, nine of the twelve wells in the occupied village are unusable. The Russians filled them all in with rocks and earth.”

“…How much of the water we carted in is left?”

“Two days’ worth.”

With the supply route strangled, a situation arose where water, even before bullets, became the problem.

“Dammit… where is the supply column?”

“The last report said the transport column that left Hanseong passed Uiju three days ago.”

“Uiju three days ago means at least three more days, does it not.”

The staff officer bowed his head.

The supply route from the Korean Peninsula to the Yalu was already reaching its limit.

Carts had to crawl along unpaved mountain tracks that scarcely deserved the name of roads, and if it rained, the wheels sank into the mud and could not move at all.

Had a railway been laid, things would have been different, but the Gyeongui Line was still a long way from opening.

And the Joseon bastards, whatever had gotten into them, might not be openly sabotaging the railway construction, but they maintained an unmistakably uncooperative attitude at every turn.

In June, the Japanese army managed, by tooth and nail, to push into the very middle of the Manchurian plain.

But the enemy was nowhere to be seen, and the supply line now stretched hundreds of kilometers back to the Korean Peninsula.

“Your Excellency! The Russians have retreated again!”

“…Just how far are these bastards going to fall back.”

In truth, Kuroki knew.

This was not flight but a lure, and they were already crawling toward the trap on their own two feet.

But what could he do?

“Your Excellency, a telegram from Imperial General Headquarters.”

The contents of the telegram the signals officer held out did not differ from his expectations by so much as a hair.

– Report a decisive victory with all haste. Battlefield results urgently required to secure foreign loans.

“…Fucking hell. The enemy won’t fight us, so where am I supposed to conjure a victory from?”

“Your Excellency, allow me to speak frankly.”

The chief of staff spread out the map and laid out the grim truth that every man present already knew.

“At present, our rice will last fifteen days, and our ammunition amounts to two major engagements. In this state we cannot hold out even a month.”

“And resupply from the homeland?”

“Sea transport is effectively blocked by the Russian fleet, and overland supply alone cannot keep pace with consumption.”

Kuroki looked down at the map and fell silent.

On the map, the Japanese army’s position was marked as a single dot in the middle of the Manchurian plain.

Behind that dot, a thin line stretched hundreds of kilometers back to the Korean Peninsula.

That the supply line sustaining tens of thousands of lives hung on this one flimsy thread was nothing short of despair.

“Your Excellency… a strange rumor is spreading among the soldiers.”

“A rumor?”

“That Russia is refusing to fight on purpose… that they are withdrawing in order to starve us to death… The rumor is spreading at alarming speed.”

Kuroki’s jaw quivered.

Because anyone could see it was not a rumor but the truth.

And the fact that even the common soldiers had caught on meant the situation had already gone past the worst.

Even at this very moment, ammunition and food were steadily dwindling.

From the homeland, demands to conserve shells were coming down almost daily.

But if they sat rooted to this spot, they would wither and die without fail, and so.

“Must we… push on to the end.”

From the Yalu to the fortress of Port Arthur was roughly 500 kilometers on foot.

They had come just about halfway, which meant they would have to walk as far again as they had already come.

And through the very heart of Russia’s sphere of power, without even a proper supply route.

…Can it be done?

But it must be done.

If staying meant death and advancing meant death, then advance and die.

For that was the spirit of the Imperial Nation.

* * *

August 1904.

In the Far East the war raged on, but the Alexander Palace in Petersburg was astir for reasons that had nothing to do with war.

“Sunny, how are you feeling these days?”

“Not bad.”

Nicholas II asked after his wife almost every day now.

With the Empress nearing full term, her belly growing rounder by the day, how could he not be anxious.

“You know what? Misha prayed again today.”

“…He really does do it every single day.”

“You know it too, don’t you? It’s been more than ten months since Misha began his dawn prayers. He hasn’t missed a single day.”

The Empress lifted her teacup without a word.

“He’s a child who rises at five every morning to pray that you will bear a son. Even in the middle of a war, he hasn’t skipped a single day.”

“I know… I know.”

“If the child that’s born is a boy, I hope he’ll be as kind and clever as Misha.”

The Empress’s teacup paused for a moment in midair.

…Like Mikhail?

The wish that the Tsesarevich who would inherit this country should turn out like an illegitimate son could hardly be pleasant to hear.

But honestly, she could not deny it either.

How could she openly hate a child who had prayed for her every single day for ten months?

“Yes… I hope so too.”

The words that left her mouth were, unexpectedly, sincere.

Wishing one’s own son could be that diligent and that clever was the wish of every mother alive.

Nicholas II smiled brightly.

It was wartime.

The Russian army was still facing the Japanese in Manchuria, and at Port Arthur the fleets continued their stalemate.

And yet Nicholas II’s heart was strangely, utterly at peace.

That this war was unfolding exactly as that young child had said was marvelous to him, and, little by little, it was coming to feel only natural.

And then the fateful day arrived.

“Your Majesty! Her Majesty the Empress is….”

Before the attendant could even finish, the Tsar shot up from his seat in the audience chamber and ran for the bedchamber.

While attendants bustled up and down the corridor, the midwife came and went, and the sound of boiling water drifted out, Nicholas II stood before the door with his hands clasped in prayer.

An hour… no, perhaps two.

Creeeak.

At last the door opened.

Nicholas II, his heart pounding madly, saw the radiant smile on the midwife’s face, and in that instant felt his whole body float up into the air.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty! It is His Imperial Highness the Tsesarevich!”

“Haah….”

A sigh of relief escaped him unbidden, and the strength went out of his knees.

The birth of the Tsesarevich who would carry this country on his shoulders.

The moment he had longed for, for nearly ten years, had at last become real.

But strangely, in that instant, the face that flashed through Nicholas II’s mind was neither his beloved wife’s nor that of the newborn Tsesarevich.

The child who, for ten months, without missing a single day, had offered prayers to God for the birth of the Tsesarevich and the well-being of the imperial house.

He found himself missing his own son, that brightest and most admirable of children, so badly that his chest ached.

~~~

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