World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Meanwhile, in the Sixth Division's defense zone east of Pontianak.

Division Commander Khalid, holding binoculars, observed the Dutch military camp ahead. It was a standard colonial military camp: wooden fences, watchtowers, rows of barracks, and several old-fashioned trucks parked in the open space in the middle. A white flag had already been raised at the camp gate, but there were still people moving around inside.

"Have you sent someone to make contact?" he asked the chief of staff.

"We sent a platoon with translators." The chief of staff was a 40-year-old Arab officer who had previously served in the Ottoman army. "The other side expressed their willingness to surrender, but demanded guarantees of personal safety and permission to retain their personal belongings."

"Okay," Khalid put down his binoculars, "but all weapons must be surrendered. Also, all officers will be held in solitary confinement, while the soldiers can be managed in a centralized manner."

"clear."

The order was relayed. A company of soldiers, lined up in skirmish lines, slowly approached the camp. The camp gates opened, and a group of Dutch soldiers came out, piling their weapons at the entrance. Most of them were young, some still bearing the innocence of youth, their faces now filled with fear and bewilderment.

Khalid watched this scene with mixed feelings.

Three months ago, he was in a tribe in Oman, negotiating oil exploration rights with the British. At that time, he was a businessman and an advisor to a chief, and he never imagined that he would wear a military uniform, come to Southeast Asia thousands of miles away, and accept the surrender of a European army.

Fate is truly wondrous.

"Commander, we've captured an officer." A company commander brought over a Dutch lieutenant. "He says he wants to see the highest commander."

Khalid sized up the prisoner. He was around thirty years old, blond, blue-eyed, and his uniform was fairly neat, but the epaulets had been torn off—a sign of surrender.

"Can you speak English?" Khalid asked in English.

"Yes." The Dutch officer straightened his back, trying to maintain his dignity. "I am Lieutenant Willem van der Sand, Deputy Battalion Commander of the 3rd Battalion, Royal East India Army. I demand that I and my men be treated in accordance with the Geneva Conventions."

"Okay," Khalid nodded. "As long as you cooperate, you won't mistreat the prisoners. But now, I have a few questions."

"Excuse me."

"How many troops are still stationed in the city? Where are they deployed?"

Van der Sand hesitated. According to military honor, he shouldn't reveal the intelligence. But looking around—hundreds of Arab soldiers were watching intently, and further away, heavy mortars were already in place.

"About... fifteen hundred men," he finally said. "Mainly deployed at the Governor's House, the police station, and the telegraph office. But morale is very low; many want to surrender, but the officers are forcing them to."

"Where is the governor?"

"They escaped by boat yesterday afternoon, heading to Batavia," Van der Sand said with a wry smile, "leaving us to be their scapegoats."

Khalid noted this information down, then asked an unexpected question: "How long have you been in Borneo?"

The officer paused for a moment, then said, "I...I'm a third-generation descendant. My grandfather came here in 1880, my father was born here, and I was born here too."

"So you consider this place your home?"

"Yes." Van der Sander's eyes dimmed. "But now... it looks like we're going to lose our home."

Khalid remained silent for a few seconds.

"Lieutenant, whose house was this when your grandfather came?"

The question was like a knife, piercing through the prisoner's feigned composure.

Van der Sand opened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.

"It was a house your grandfather seized from someone else," Khalid answered for him. "Now, the original owner's descendants have come back to claim it. It's that simple."

He waved his hand: "Take him away. Treat him as a prisoner of war, don't mistreat him."

The soldiers took the Dutch officer away.

Khalid turned to look at the military camp. Soldiers of the Sixth Division were counting weapons, registering prisoners, and taking over facilities. Everything was proceeding smoothly, demonstrating a high level of training.

But he noticed that some soldiers had confused expressions on their faces.

"Ali," he called to the guard company commander, "go around to each company and listen to what the soldiers are saying. Especially... about why we're fighting here."

"Yes, sir."

Ali was a clever and quick-witted 25-year-old. Half an hour later, he returned with a strange expression on his face.

"How is it?" Khalid asked.

"There's some discussion among the people," Ali said, choosing his words carefully. "Mainly, they feel this place is too unfamiliar. The climate, the vegetation, the people—it's all completely different from our hometown. Some soldiers are asking: 'Is it worth it for us to come all this way to help the Chinese seize territory?'"

"What was your answer?"

"I said, this is an order, and soldiers are duty-bound to obey orders."

Khalid shook his head: "That's not enough. Come with me."

He led Ali toward the military camp's parade ground. There, several hundred soldiers of the Sixth Division were resting, sitting in small groups. Upon seeing their division commander approach, they all stood up.

"At ease." Khalid waved his hand and jumped onto a wooden crate so that everyone could see him.

“Brothers, I know what you’re thinking,” he said bluntly. “I’m thinking the same thing: Why are we here? This humid jungle, these unfamiliar faces, these people who don’t speak our language… what do they have to do with us?”

The soldiers fell silent and looked at him.

"Let me tell you a story," Khalid said. "Last year, during the anti-bandit operations in the Gulf of Oman, remember? We lost seventeen brothers. One of them was a machine gunner named Qasim, who was only nineteen years old."

Many people nodded. Qasim was a likeable young man, a good shot, and loved to sing.

"Where is Qasim from?" Khalid asked.

"From the inner court," someone answered.

"Yes, the Bedouin of Najd. After his sacrifice, who provided his family with compensation?"

"nation."

Who pays for his younger siblings' tuition?

"nation."

"Who can guarantee that his parents will be taken care of when they get old?"

"nation."

Through a series of questions and answers, the soldiers gradually understood what was going on.

"For whom did Qasim die?" Khalid asked. "For the Chinese? For the Arabs? No, he died for Lanfang. Because when he put on this uniform, he swore allegiance not to any particular ethnicity, but to this country."

He jumped off the wooden crate and walked among the soldiers:

"Today, we are fighting here not to seize land for the Chinese, but to reclaim our homeland of Lanfang. If we say today, 'This is not our land, we will not help,' then tomorrow, when someone attacks our hometown, the Chinese brothers of the First and Second Divisions can also say, 'That is not our land, we will not help.'"

He stopped and looked at the young faces around him:

"What is a nation? A nation is a promise: you protect me, I protect you. It doesn't matter what ethnicity or region we are from. The blood we shed in Borneo will one day be exchanged for the blood others shed for us in the Arabian Peninsula. You must understand this principle."

A young soldier raised his hand: "Commander, I understand. But... will the Chinese here consider us one of their own?"

"Good question," Khalid said. "Come on, I'll take you to see the answer."

He led several dozen soldiers out of the military camp and onto the nearby streets.

The Chinese residents of Pontianak began to tentatively venture out of their homes. When they saw Arab soldiers, they were initially surprised and wary—after all, foreigners in military uniforms were always frightening.

But soon they discovered that these soldiers were different.

An Arab soldier is helping an elderly woman carry water. Another is bandaging a wounded civilian—the medic hasn't arrived yet, but he has basic first aid training. Yet another is gesturing, trying to tell a group of children to stay away from the danger zone.