World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

It wasn't normal silence; it was deathly silence. There were no gunshots, no shouts, only the crackling of flames and the groans of the wounded.

Yamada Ichiro slowly raised his head.

He looked at the battlefield, now unrecognizable, at the still-burning flames, and at the corpses torn to pieces.

Then he heard a sound behind him—

The sound grew louder and closer, surging in like a tide.

He turned around.

The second batch of Japanese soldiers, their eyes red with anger, charged onto the beach.

They trampled over the corpses of their comrades, over the blood-stained sand, and over the still-groaning wounded soldiers, charging toward the bombed-out British positions.

No one shouted "Long live!" and no one spoke.

The only sounds were the soft rustling of footsteps on the sand and the occasional clang of a gun bolt being pulled back.

Yamada Ichiro tried to stand up, but his legs felt like cotton. He crawled a few steps, grabbed the trouser leg of a passing soldier, and said in a hoarse voice:

"Take me with you... take me with you..."

The soldier glanced down at him, then without a word, hoisted him onto his shoulder and continued charging forward.

Brigadier General Gurney crawled out of the mud on the British position.

His left ear was deafened by the blast, his right eye was cut by shrapnel, and his face was covered in blood. But he was still alive.

He looked around blankly—where were his soldiers? Where was his position?

No more.

The trenches were filled in. The machine gun emplacements were blown up. The soldiers who had followed him for three years, the soldiers who had been smoking and chatting with him just yesterday, were all gone. All that remained were bits of flesh and severed limbs, and a few still-wriggling human figures.

An Indian soldier crawled up to him, shouting something. Brigadier General Gurney couldn't hear him—he was deaf. But he saw the Indian soldier's eyes, the kind of eyes he recognized—the eyes of someone terrified.

Then he saw the Japanese soldiers rushing towards him in the distance.

They were densely packed together, like a pack of mad beasts.

Brigadier General Gurney reached for his sidearm at his waist. But the holster was empty—it had been lost sometime during his absence.

He stood up, staggered a few steps, and then knelt on the ground.

Japanese soldiers rushed towards him. A young soldier held a rifle, bayonet pointed at his chest.

Brigadier General Gurney looked at the soldier. The soldier's eyes were bloodshot, his lips were tightly pressed together, and his hands were trembling.

"Come on," Brigadier General Gurney said, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping against steel, "kill me."

The young soldier was stunned for a moment.

Then he closed his eyes and thrust the bayonet forward.

When Brigadier General Gurney fell, the last thing he saw was the red-stained beach and the two Lanfang battleships still smoking in the distance.

He wanted to say something.

But blood gushed out, blocking his throat.

By 8:00 a.m., the beachhead had been completely occupied.

Yamada Ichiro was helped to a relatively flat spot and sat down to catch his breath.

He had been shot in the left shoulder; the bleeding had stopped, but the pain was excruciating. He tore open the first-aid kit and gritted his teeth as he bandaged himself. He wrapped the gauze around and around, and blood quickly seeped out again, but he couldn't care less.

Beside him, the adjutant was counting the number of people.

"First Regiment: 427 dead, 306 seriously wounded. Second Regiment: 389 dead, 251 seriously wounded."

Yamada Ichiro closed his eyes.

More than 800 people.

In just twenty minutes, more than eight hundred people died.

He remembered the soldiers who had fallen beside him, the young soldier's dying eyes, and the feeling of the warm blood flowing beneath him.

He opened his eyes and looked at the British positions in the distance. On the positions, Japanese soldiers were cleaning up the battlefield. They dragged the British corpses aside, moved the surviving prisoners aside, and collected the weapons and ammunition. No one spoke, no one laughed, they just worked in silence.

A soldier walked past him, dragging the body of a British officer. The face was blown to pieces, but the rank insignia on the uniform was still legible—Brigadier General.

Yamada Ichiro watched the corpse being dragged away without saying a word.

In the distance, landing ships are approaching the shore. The third and fourth batches of soldiers are disembarking.

A messenger ran up, panting, and saluted: "Colonel! The division commander has ordered the 1st Regiment to rest in place, replenish ammunition, and await further orders."

Yamada Ichiro nodded.

"Where is the division commander?"

"We're on the landing ship, we'll be ashore soon."

Yamada Ichiro stood up, enduring the pain in his shoulder, and slowly walked towards the beach. He wanted to see Fukuda Masataro in person and tell him personally—the beachhead had been taken, but at a great cost.

On the beach, Masataro Fukuda rode a tall, chestnut horse slowly down from the landing ship. The seawater covered the horse's hooves and legs before finally setting foot on Singaporean soil.

Yamada Ichiro walked up to him, stood at attention, and saluted.

"Division Commander, the 1st Regiment has been ordered to capture the beachhead. 427 dead and 306 seriously wounded."

Fukuda Masataro looked at him, at his blood-stained face, at his wounded arm hanging in a sling.

"How is your injury?"

"It's alright."

Fukuda Masataro nodded and dismounted. He handed the reins to his adjutant, walked up to Yamada Ichiro, and placed his hand on his shoulder—the uninjured side.

"Yamada, do you know what happened in that battle just now?"

Yamada Ichiro shook his head.

Masataro Fukuda pointed in the direction of the two Lanfang battleships in the distance.

"You've shown the Lanfang people. You've shown them that the soldiers of Japan are not afraid to die, that they can fight, and that they deserve their naval support." He paused. "From today onward, the Lanfang people will no longer treat us as second-rate troops."

Yamada Ichiro remained silent for three seconds.

"Division Commander, those fallen soldiers..."

"They will go to XX Shrine," Fukuda Masataro interrupted him. "Every single one of them will. The Sakura Kingdom will remember them, the Locusts will remember them. But now, the living must keep going."

He turned and looked at the faintly visible Singapore cityscape in the distance.

"Order all regiments to rest for two hours. After two hours, advance into the city."

Two hours later, the Japanese soldiers began to advance into the city of Singapore.

Yamada Ichiro walked at the front of the group. His left shoulder was wrapped in a thick bandage, which pulled painfully with every step, but he did not sit on a stretcher or ride a horse; he just walked step by step.

Behind him, more than three thousand soldiers marched in columns along the road. No one spoke; only the sound of footsteps and the occasional clang of gun bolts being pulled back could be heard.

The road was flanked by dense tropical rainforests, with palm trees, rubber trees, and thick bushes. The rainforest was eerily quiet; there wasn't even a bird's call.

Yamada Ichiro raised his right hand, signaling the group to stop.

"Scout, advance 200 meters and inspect the jungle."

Three scouts crouched low and disappeared into the jungle. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes—they returned.

"Reporting to the Colonel, no enemies were found in the jungle. But... there are footprints, fresh, heading towards the city."

Yamada Ichiro nodded.

The British fled.

Or rather, the British retreated into the city.

"Keep moving forward. Stay alert."

The procession continued forward.