Auf Wiedersehen

As tankery practice ended, the commander called out "See you tomorrow!" to everyone in the team, including the one person to whom it did not apply. The end of my last day at my school's tankery team had come, and with it, the final proof of my failure to bring about the changes I had desired to make

My name is Emi Nakasuga, and I am a German student in my second to last year of primary schooling. I'm the younger of two daughters of a Japanese man and a German woman, but while Germany may be my home country, the only friends I had were half the world away, in Japan.

Several years ago, in my last year of elementary school, I studied abroad in Japan for a little less than a year. Initially, I hated it, thinking of the Japanese as not taking tankery seriously. But over time, I made some friends, and even if it wasn't always smooth, we did get along. In the end, though, I had to return to Germany, and did so in order to find my own way of tankery, while Miho, one of my friends, did the same.

I hadn't heard from Miho since then, so I could only hope that she'd had more luck than I had. Seeing a stagnant and reactionary team at my school in Germany, I sought to bring about change, but my efforts to convince others to see things the way I did, done in my usual blunt and forceful manner, only led to my being isolated, and it got even worse once my older sister graduated. I'd gotten better at driving, and was the best on a team, which was no mean feat given how skilled many German tankers are, but it did little good for me.

The most logical decision thus seemed to take the skills I had honed over all this time elsewhere so that I could start with a clean slate, and after an opportunity to do so presented itself, that was what I did.

I'd reached my decision to transfer out midway through the year, but I couldn't just up and leave. I had to file the appropriate paperwork, transferring out of my old school and into my new one, move out of my apartment, move into my newly assigned housing, resign from the tankery team and join whatever tankery team I had in my new school. As such, I'm not entirely sure when I came to this realization, but I got the ball rolling a few days before my departure.

As was required of all those leaving the team of their own volition, I reported in to the office of my commander after practice ended. While she clearly didn't think much of, much less listen to, my suggestions, she didn't go so far as to punish me for speaking my mind; she only did so one time, when I forgot who I was talking with. She was not motivated out of kindness or for the sake of mercy, but most likely for the same reasons that one tries to ignore a dog barking at you from behind a fence. No one else had taken my ideas very seriously, and I quickly grew quite unpopular among the team, although they were largely willing to ignore me as long as I did my job- driving a tank.

It was sobering to realize how much I had alienated myself from my peers. Back in Japan, I had assumed that my willingness to tell it like it is was simply culturally incompatible with my Japanese classmates, whom I regarded as goody-two-shoes. But when I was out of line, my mother, the German half of my parents, made certain to scold me, and my German classmates were no more tolerant of my attitude than my Japanese classmates had been.

"Commander," I said. "Today was my last day. I take it you got my letter of resignation?"

The commander seemed oddly relieved, obviously over the fact that she would no longer have to deal with a lowly tank driver telling her how to do her job.

"I did," the commander said blandly. "Thank you for your hard work, and good luck at your new school."

I tried to force a polite smile, but inwardly, I grimaced. Reluctantly saluting her before excusing myself was all I could manage.

There's a saying; "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." I've found that's only partly true. You can talk a great deal without saying anything at all, and I've found that most interactions with strangers are little more than pleasantries. I suppose that's why most people babble on in their day to day conversations, getting through without making anyone mad, or expressing themselves in any meaningful way. At this point, I think we both realized there wasn't any point to saying anything more, and simply wanted to finish with this matter.

I passed by two soon-to-be-ex teammates, and we greeted each other with curt nods. But as I walked past them, not quite out of earshot, I could barely hear "She's finally leaving?" and "About time; she's a good driver, but no one likes a bossy, stuck up..."

I quickened my pace, not wanting to hear any more, lest I ended up giving a response I would regret. As their words rang in my head, I clenched my fists and gave a glare that no one would see.

"Say what you will about me, but at least have the decency to say it to my face," I thought.

I was broken out of my thoughts as one of my crewmates, who was in a different class, and whom I hadn't spoken with much outside of practice, walked up to me so that she could wish me luck at my new school. I gave her a somewhat awkward thank you before saying goodbye and quickly walking off. A more cynical part of me wondered whether she missed having my driving skills around.

Of course, I was hardly the first disliked tankery team member to be kept around because I was still useful to the team. Generally, if you're at least somewhat competent, your behavior isn't disruptive and people are at least willing to work with you, you're in no danger of being kicked out. I was certainly more skilled than the driver I replaced, who had several accidents in important matches; even her friends on the crew admitted it. I showed up all the time and did my best day in and day out, unlike one girl who, while nice, had health problems, and often had to miss practice for doctor's appointments. And at the very least, I wasn't disliked as widely as the previous commander, who'd essentially lost the respect of the entire team and the coach essentially ordered her to resign. But while I was one of the best drivers, and largely stayed out of trouble, save for once getting reprimanded for insubordination, I had little reason to believe they would be much kinder to me when they talked about me behind my back.

So what would I say to anyone who asked me about them? Our antipathy was by no means mutual, and in spite of my disagreements with them, I found it hard to hate them. Not only is "hate" an overly strong word that almost ended one of my friendships, but it's the farthest thing from the truth as far as describing my feelings towards them goes. I had done what I did for their sake, and when that failed, I blamed myself.

Getting back to my apartment, I looked at the photo of myself with my friends from Japan once again. At times like these, it was surprising to see how much time had passed since then, and depressing to realize how little I had changed in that time.

Looking at the picture one day in the recent past, although I don't quite remember when, was when I realized just how much I missed them. They didn't simply put up with me when I was out of line, but they were also honest enough to tell me when I did or said something unacceptable, and kind enough to forgive me when I apologized. They were true friends- most people only have a handful of friends like them, if any- and the pleasant memories of the time I spent with them were all the proof I needed that I couldn't simply live alone.

At the time, I'd convinced myself that even if people liked me, I was still useful to them, and didn't care how they felt if they were better off as a result of my efforts. Having spent every day since my return toward tankery working toward my goal in various ways, I had made significant sacrifices for my goal of enacting change, and thus had difficulty accepting that it was in vain. In the process, I came to understand where the "sunk cost fallacy" came from, although I realized that I had only two real options save for giving up- stay the course or start over elsewhere

It was too late to change the minds of most of my schoolmates. Their negative opinions of me went beyond first impressions, but also trends of behavior that could not be reversed in a year. As cowardly as it seemed, it was time to pick up roots and relocate, and in a serendipitous turn of events, I had just the opportunity I needed.

I thought back to the offer I had received a few days earlier. The teacher who gave it to me had been worried about me, but said that while I could speak with her about my concerns, and report any bullying, she could not make them like or trust me. Still, she said it was her duty to give students advice, and said that if I no longer wished to attend, she had a potentially promising offer- a school known as Bellwall Academy was looking for experienced tankers.

Obviously, the school wouldn't be anything particularly strong, if they were going this far for tankers; most strong schools had a sizable talent pool from their reputation alone. On the other hand, that seemed to work well for me, since if they acknowledged their lack of experience in tankery and sought guidance from experienced tankers, perhaps I could have a role to play there.

But while I was likely needed there, I had no desire to take that for granted or repeat my mistakes, lest I undermine my own efforts and prove that I had learned nothing after all these years. My decision to transfer essentially amounted to running away, and while I believed I had little choice, I had little desire to do so again.

Finally, the time to leave came, and I packed away all my possessions and headed to the boarding ramp of the ship, alone, to board a boat that would take me to shore, a service for those who had to leave the ship but couldn't wait for it to go into port. Once there, I would get a taxi to the airport and take a flight to Japan.

As the boat pulled away from the ship, toward the setting sun, I looked back one last time, watching for a familiar face, hoping that some people I knew would show up to say goodbye. Back when I left Japan, I'd seen Hitomi and Chihiro shortly before I'd left. As my train pulled out of the station, and as I sat across from my mothr, my friends, Miho included caught up to it with their tank to say goodbye in perhaps the most pleasant surprise of my life.

I had been especially pleased to see Miho back then. The last time we spoke, I, short on time, pressured her to find a way of tankery that she could call her own, and had kept my distance from her when she balked. I realized I was asking a great deal of her, but as I confided in Chihiro and Hitomi, this was something only she could decide for herself, so I asked them to keep my returning to Germany to find my own way of tankery a secret. I don't know what they told Miho- possibly what I had told them, but asked them to keep to themselves- but it worked, and Miho was willing to take the first step to find her own way of tankery, which was all I needed to hear from her before I left Japan.

But this time, no one showed up for me as I sat among a couple who had come to visit their kids at school, someone who had a job interview at the school and a few others. There were a fair number of people on the boat along with me, so it wasn't as though I left at some odd time, when no one would be around to see me leave. Since my departure had been announced to the team, I could only assume the worst- that they knew, but didn't care at all.

A part of me wanted to think "Good riddance," and celebrate my parting ways with those who did not care for the help I had tried to give them, but in my heart, I knew that was not how I truly felt. My personal belief is that if I don't care about people, I don't bother with them, and I had tried to help my teammates because I had cared about them. On some level, instead of resenting them for ostracizing me, I felt as though I'd failed them. In the end, I most felt regret that I would not see them again, and that our time together would end this way.

In spite of how all this was a potentially valuable lesson, I had to put it out of my head. I was leaving Germany behind, and would, in all likelihood, never see any of them again. Now, I had to start anew in finding my own way of tankery, or else I would hardly be able to face Miho if our paths crossed once again.

Unfortunately for me, it turned out that Bellwall Academy was no one's idea of a good tankery school. The so-called tankery club was full of delinquent types. Practically all of the tanks been sold. Both those who believe in the importance of superior tanks and those who believe that the quality of the people who crew them matters most would be disappointed. I wouldn't say that I missed my old school, but it wasn't a good sign when, after less than a day at my new school, I was already considering transferring again.

But around the time that thought entered my head, I realized that Hitomi was here; unlike before, if I left, I would leave behind one of the few who still thought of me as a friend. She told me that this was the only school that she could get into that had tankery, inadvertently reminding me of how I took my ability to go to a school half the world away for granted. Hearing that, I began to reconsider, and staked my and Hitomi's continued attendance at the school on the outcome of a race, partly on a whim, so that the club Hitomi wanted to protect could continue to exist, and have a chance to become a worthwhile tankery team.

We prevailed in the race, but our work is still far from over. What I said about the club still applies, even if I'm somewhat more optimistic about it, and I know that we have a long way to go before we can even compete, much less win. In spite of that, people can change, as Hitomi has and I am, so perhaps the two of us can make tankers out of all these unlikely individuals.

While Bellwall Academy initially seemed like the worst possible place to end up out of all the places that had tankery teams, in some ways, it seemed like the ideal opportunity and the perfect second chance. In coming here, I could say "Auf Wiedersehen" to the regrets of the past, start anew and someday, see Miho again with the answers I sought since we parted.

Author's Notes

Thank you for reading this fic.

This is based off of Little Army 2, in which Emi alludes to trying to force change at her school in Germany (she doesn't refer to it by name), and becoming a pariah as a result, which led to her taking the offer to transfer to Bellwall (which, unbeknownst to her, was Hitomi's doing). Emi's time at her school seemed to be an interesting untold story, so I decided to show how it ended.

It's in some ways similar to Saying Goodbye (partly because the events in question are somewhat similar), but there are a few notable differences in terms of the narrators and their circumstances. Emi's noticeably more cynical than Miho, not to the point at which she's not affected by becoming an outcast, but she's not as optimistic about her new school (albeit with good reason), and has a certain amount of self-loathing over the way things turned out. Unlike with Miho, Emi's old school is unlikely to be at all relevant to the plot, since Bellwall will most likely only compete with Japanese schools (I saw St. Gloriana in untranslated versions of the second and third chapter). Unlike Miho, Emi most likely doesn't have any friends left at her school, much like she did not have any before meeting, Miho, Chihiro and Hitomi, but she does still care for her soon-to-be-former teammates to an extent (blaming herself, rather than them, for how things turned out), even if the feeling may not always be reciprocated.

I suspect that Emi's sister has already graduated, since Emi never mentions her in Little Army 2. Given that Emi transfers over around the same time that Miho wins the tournament, Emi's sister could only be around if she was a year older than Emi.

I'm currently working on a few non-Girls und Panzer projects at the moment, so my focus may be turned elsewhere, but as Little Army 2 and Maginot progress, I may be inspired to write more about them.