The Saga of Tanya the Evil, Vol. 7: Ut Sementem Feceris, ita Metes

by Carlo Zen

  Colonel von Lergen was in the awkward position of realizing that he hadn’t fully understood that until just now.

  No matter what he thought, he was in the position of making the facial expressions the home country intended, speaking in the voice the home country demanded, and saying the words the home country wished him to say.

  The job could hardly be summed up as merely talking. General Gassman had his usual cheery, affable smile plastered on his face, but Lergen got straight to the point.

  “Regarding the matter you proposed earlier, there’s been a reply from the home country.”

  “And what was it, Colonel von Lergen?”

  Facing the general, who had straightened up, Lergen took a deep breath. Let’s admit it. To say what he was about to say, as a colonel to a general, took no small measure of resolve. So he braced himself and spoke with extreme seriousness. “I shall now relay the message from the home country. All right?”

  He paused to take a breath.

  “Eat shit. That is all.”

  Doing the work to achieve a cease-fire and peace—that is, to end the war—required a show-no-weakness, take-no-prisoners attitude, bizarrely enough.

  “Oh? That’s the reply from your home country?”

  “To put it plainly, it was nothing more or less than that.”

  If he’d had a mirror, he probably would have seen a conceited imperial soldier in it. Lergen knew his face didn’t appear threatening. That’s why he forced its stiff muscles into an expression approaching overconfidence.

  …Considering how long he had spent practicing in front of a mirror at the embassy, he wanted to believe he was pulling it off. If he wasn’t, he was nothing but a clown.

  “In response to the Federation Army’s nonsense about repelling us with force, the home country has invoked Operation Iron Hammer. Based on an existing policy, they’re currently refusing Communist ideas with guns and powder, as if it was their most cherished dream to do so.”

  “That’s quite a militaristic way to put it.”

  Gassman, shrugging, must have realized how far backward Lergen was bending over. Up against a soldier-politician with a long career in military administration, Lergen came off as having secondhand experience no matter how he tried to play it. It was only natural that a green, mid-ranking officer would be scoffed at by a cunning general.

  “I hope you’ll excuse me. But, sir, the Federation’s pronouncements are equally high-handed. I’d appreciate it if you could overlook it.”

  Lergen had already accepted that his role was that of the clown.

  “Do you know the first thing about negotiation?”

  “Of course I do.”

  He had known ahead of time that he would be snorted at and glared at.

  From the moment they met, it had been implied that the Empire and Kingdom of Ildoa would clash, with the former seeking a settlement in its favor and the latter saying, Quit being so demanding.

  “I was concerned you had forgotten. I do hope there is still a role for Ildoa to play. Very well. For now, can we review the Empire’s terms?”

  “Yes, of course.” Lergen nodded respectfully, but contrary to that attitude, he had been dispatched with strict orders to not budge. As long as that was the case, it would probably look like superficial politeness to the general.

  …And it would only be a matter of time until it was obvious that he was acting that way on purpose.

  “Let’s set aside the demands for reparations and a disarmed region for a moment. Would you be willing to alter your demands for the cession of key strategic points and the citizen votes in occupied territories?”

  “The home country notified me that, if necessary, we can accept that occupied territories would become neutral, although that’s assuming that the treaty guarantees they’re established as self-governing regions.”

  “Colonel von Lergen, to be blunt…we want you to rethink the voting and the fixing of the divisions.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  Gassman didn’t even try to hide the bitter look on his face when Lergen refused so flatly. Perhaps that was only natural, as the Ildoan side surely had an idea of what they were up against even during the preliminary negotiation stage.

  But Lergen truly couldn’t yield in this instance.

  “No wiggle room at all? Really? If you could cede us some ground on this point…Ildoa could arrange things with the Federation almost immediately.”

  “General, I’m overwhelmed that you would speak so courteously with a mere colonel, but even so, I must decline. I hope you’re able to forgive me.”

  “I would hope that you could understand the good intentions of your ally.”

  “We simply shan’t be taking advantage of them.”

  “…Let’s speak heart-to-heart as soldiers. Where’s the middle ground? How can we settle this? I want to know the limits of your demands. Could you tell me?”

  “Frankly, we want reparations. We’re also hungry for territory. But let’s get to the essential: The Empire wants peace of mind.”

  “Peace of mind?”

  “We want the guarantee of safety—that we won’t be attacked again.”

  Strategic sneak attacks and being surrounded were the reality of the Empire’s geopolitical circumstances. But both of those things had become traumatic for them.

  There were times the Empire felt anxiety and even fear. The Imperial Army General Staff wanted to be liberated from that terror no matter what it took.

  …Peace had to mean the end of fear.

  “Conversely, if all the other terms are met, the General Staff will accept with or without reparations and with or without territorial cessions.”

  “…The complete security of the Empire’s strategic environment?”

  It was clear to Lergen that Gassman was about to say, There’s no way. And yes, it was easier said than done. And it wasn’t only the dilemma of guaranteeing complete security but the fact that just because one person was able to sleep peacefully under ideal terms didn’t mean their neighbor could as well.

  The secure strategic environment the Empire so wished for was, on the other hand, too advantageous. Let’s face it: It was a hurdle too high for the other countries. Even the General Staff would admit that.

  …But public opinion in the Empire thought differently. The public felt that security was the minimum. Anything less, and the imperial public wouldn’t accept.

  “Hence why I’m presenting this request.”

  “It’s too much. Are you saying you think it’s realistic?”

  “The Empire has already dealt with the west, handled the north, and cleaned up the south. The only threat remaining is in the east. Under the circumstances, it seems like a minimal ask. Why do you think it’s too much?”

  The reason he continued to emphasize that this was a line that couldn’t be crossed was simple. If the terms were like any cease-fire that finished after ten years or so, they were afraid they might end up in another idiotic war.

  What the Empire needed was a final and eternal framework for peace. That was why Lergen had to stubbornly, uncompromisingly maintain the position that they would not yield.

  “Colonel von Lergen, get a grip and be reasonable. As your ally, Ildoa feels compelled to warn you.”

  “You needn’t worry.”

  “Oh? Even though your army is under pressure from the Federation’s?”

  “…With all due respect, the Imperial Army is fighting on enemy territory, not our own. I believe you can comprehend, then, who is ahead?”

  Though he knew he was just playing with words, he had to employ some bravado and say they weren’t losing. He had heard once that diplomacy sometimes required an honest liar, but now it hit him what a realistic complaint it was.

  “Have you ever heard of logistics, Colonel? I’m sure even the Empire can’t advance forever. Considering the rate of attrition in the east, I suggest out of the kindness of my heart that you prioritize an early settlement.”


  “From one perspective, you may be right…but we know we’re one step away from victory.”

  “That’s great if true. Colonel, I’ll tell you this… Where that last step will take you may not be the world you hope for.”

  Lergen knew he was being told that hope had remained at the bottom of Pandora’s box. But who peeked in and checked anyhow? You don’t know if the cat is alive or dead until you look, right?

  “Maybe not. But,” Lergen continued with a wan smile, “we’ve sown our seeds—the seeds to solve the problems on the eastern front.”

  “…You mean you’ve planned for the issues that will come up after your counterattack succeeds?”

  “Naturally, we’re prepared.”

  After seeing Colonel von Lergen off, General Gassman remained alone in his room smoking a cigar; he sighed in spite of himself.

  “…I’d like to think it’s just a brave front.”

  As far as he knew, the Imperial Army’s current situation was far from ideal. Even if they weren’t completely battered, it was probably appropriate to describe them as “awfully exhausted.” Unable to overcome the toll of winter, they had only just managed to regroup after sinking into the mud, no?

  And that was when the Federation had knocked them sideways.

  It was a total surprise attack. And the Imperial Army’s response was far too late. It was an uncharacteristic blunder that ended in even their supply depot getting hit.

  What said the most was the movement of the front line. Between imperial units pulling far back by the kilometer and reports of a rout, their position wasn’t such that they could be putting up a brave front. Perhaps it was properly termed a quagmire? It had to be frustrating. Yet the Imperial Army showed no signs of compromising.

  “It’s fine for the negotiations to take a while, but…at this rate, will it ever come together? Unless one of them achieves a major victory and the other suffers a terrible defeat, we may not get anywhere.”

  As the mediator, the longer the negotiations dragged on, the larger he could claim his role was. But honestly, if it was going to take too long, the whole mediation maneuver seemed less appealing.

  “…I suppose I just have to wait for Colonel Calandro’s report.”

  MAY 5, UNIFIED YEAR 1927, IMPERIAL CAPITAL BERUN, GENERAL STAFF WAR ROOM

  The Imperial Army needed a breakthrough on the eastern front, a plan to pull the disordered units away from the front lines that were being backed up on them, to regain discipline, and to avoid a total collapse.

  Of course, in the field, what needed to be done was getting done. Noncommissioned officers roared pep talks, lower-ranking officers endeavored to get things under control, and the higher-ranking commanders ran around working hard to reorganize everyone. Thus, order was reinstated.

  To put it plainly, the issue was what their next move would be, given their strategic environment.

  They were in the process of gathering enough fighting power for a counteroffensive: airborne rangers, air forces, armored units for mobility, and what little shells and horses they could find. But working like alchemists, the Service Corps had managed to scrape together the minimum—the bare minimum—of supplies necessary for the attack.

  Still, no one could deny that it was all done very quickly. And more than anything, no one was sure that the prep for this emergency plan was really enough.

  Normally, there would have been a careful risk assessment. But at present, all they had was an operation plan based on forced guesses made under strict time constraints.

  You definitely couldn’t call it a thorough job. And more than anything, their track record of failing to grasp the enemy situation made them extra hesitant.

  The trauma was deep-rooted. The General Staff’s failure to predict the enemy offensive cast a heavy shadow over their ability to judge the situation.

  Their plan for a counteroffensive to deal some serious damage to the enemy field army as soon as the spring ground solidified missed its mark.

  It was such a blunder that everyone had to admit that they had done a horrible job analyzing the enemy situation. If they faced off again without a plan, they would surely be swept away.

  In order to recover, desperate for a move that would break through their strategic difficulties, the General Staff mustered all their wisdom, collected what few possibilities remained, and put together a sole hope.

  The name of the plan was Operation Iron Hammer.

  The idea was overly ambitious maneuver warfare focused on hitting the brunt of the enemy forces with one powerful strike.

  Even the primary architect of the plan, Lieutenant General von Rudersdorf, had to admit that Operation Iron Hammer was an all-or-nothing gamble.

  “Hey, Zettour, what do you think?”

  “It’s too high-risk for a final plan. That’s about it. Operation Iron Hammer has a rationale I can’t deny, so I agree with you there. But it just doesn’t feel right.”

  “It’s the best we have right now.”

  The main idea of Operation Iron Hammer was to use a river in the enemy’s rear area as a huge wall for defense. In order to do that, the plan was to have troops drop at a crossing. While the airborne unit cut the enemy off from their rear area, the “iron hammer” made up primarily of armored forces would ram into the enemy military district to divide and envelop them. It was perfect in theory.

  You could say getting them to tidy up the lines to make up for their numerical inferiority and managing to identify the enemy military district through the combined effort of east and central Intelligence despite the unplanned nature of it all was a historic achievement.

  But, but, but…

  “The fact that we have to just hope that this one attack will solve all our problems is…exceedingly pathetic.”

  “Hope? Stop making it sound like we’re praying, Zettour. The already oppressive atmosphere in the General Staff will get even gloomier. Besides, it isn’t our job to look to the Lord—though we could ask a chaplain to…”

  Lieutenant General von Zettour nodded solemnly that Rudersdorf was right about that, but he couldn’t help but express his internal doubt. “We’re staff officers. Our job isn’t to pray for miracles but to perform them. I don’t have any objections to that. But do you think we really can?”

  “We need a miracle, so it’s our duty.” Rudersdorf spoke matter-of-factly, declaring that there was nothing to be confused about. “It must be done, so we’ll make it happen.”

  If you get it, then quit whining was the look Rudersdorf shot at him, and Zettour shook his head and murmured, “That’s how it’s always been. We do what we must.”

  Operation Iron Hammer hinged entirely on whether the drop was successful or not. In order to send in the ranger paratroopers, a battle for air supremacy would be unavoidable. The imperial military was only just barely able to cover the necessary costs—fuel, planes, personnel, and so on.

  “Rudersdorf, I’ll be straight with you. At present, our air force is like a rubber band stretched to its limits. Please remember that.” Zettour warned him out of the sense of duty that went with his position. Saying they didn’t have any more room to extend further was the same as saying he could see them about to snap.

  …Ultimately, and sadly, they couldn’t count on the air force to be capable of a second strike. At this point, they had already mobilized every last transport plane and personnel they could muster. It wasn’t even likely they would be able to get adequate supplies to the rangers being dropped at the Federation river crossing.

  And he couldn’t shake his worry about how long the lightly outfitted rangers would actually be able to hold the bridge. It would be a battle against time. If it took too long, the damage would be irreversible.

  “We’ve done what we can, so all that’s left is to believe in our troops out there fighting.”

  “Hahhh,” Zettour sighed. He respected his friend and was terribly envious of his unflappable courage.

  “You’re always like this.�
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  “Like what?”

  “I envy your decisiveness and how certain you are. I’m incapable of that much confidence. All this walking on thin ice has worn me out.”

  “Hmph,” Rudersdorf snorted. He thought highly of himself, yes, but that’s what a staff officer had to do. And as long as a staff officer was defined thusly, a high-ranking officer who had been through the staff curriculum would necessarily end up arrogant.

  He took pride in his power, in his devotion to his duties, and in his abilities as a specialist.

  “No risk, no reward.”

  “I agree with you, Rudersdorf, albeit with a reservation.”

  “What reservation?”

  Zettour nodded, shrugged, and hit him with exactly what he wanted to say. “It has to be a risk taken after eliminating what risks can be eliminated.”

  “You just don’t know when to give in, do you?”

  “General von Rudersdorf, I’ll take the liberty of saying…that no, I don’t.” Zettour’s heavy sigh mixed with the anxious tapping of his trembling left fingers on the table. Irritated, he shook his hand out and took a cigar from the case. The words that slipped out before he put it in his mouth were his true feelings. “No sane person would approve of this gamble. If this were before the war, the one who came up with it would be sent to a sanatorium!”

  “Are you saying it’s madness?”

  Obviously. Zettour nodded firmly.

  A long-range airborne operation and no solid prospects for supplying the rangers who dropped? If this failed, they would have lost their invaluable reserve ranger paratroopers—that fact alone was headache inducing. And they’d have to abandon the eastern defensive lines to counter.

  If they lost this bet, imperial units could collapse across the board… Though it was true that if they won, it would be a great achievement. They could also expect it to have a positive impact on the secret negotiations going on in Ildoa as they spoke. If things went well, it might even lead to a cease-fire and peace.

  Sadly, all these hopes came with the caveat of victory. This was a military operation in name, but in essence it could be described only as a gamble. It was incredibly risky—perhaps even too risky.