World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The artillery regiment should arrive tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he's going to use those thirty-six 105mm howitzers to flatten that damned trench.

tomorrow--

He closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

At four o'clock in the morning on the third day, Lanfang's artillery regiment finally arrived.

Thirty-six 105mm howitzers were lined up at the foot of the hill, muzzles raised high, aimed at the British positions on Bendal Hill. The gunners, shirtless, carried shells, calculated data, and prepared to fire.

Yamada Ichiro stood beside the artillery position, looking at the huge cannons.

The artillery regimental commander was from Lanfang, surnamed Zhang, in his early thirties, with the composure of a seasoned veteran.

"Colonel Yamada," Commander Zhang said in broken Japanese, "are your men ready?"

Yamada Ichiro nodded.

"Ready. We'll charge as soon as the shelling stops."

Commander Zhang glanced at his watch.

"It's almost dawn. We have thirty minutes for artillery preparation. After thirty minutes, you must charge in."

Yamada Ichiro took a deep breath.

"clear."

At exactly 4:30 a.m., Regiment Commander Zhang raised his right hand.

"Fire!"

Thirty-six 105mm howitzers roared simultaneously. The muzzle flashes illuminated the pre-dawn darkness as shells whistled towards the summit of Bendal.

On the British positions, explosions rang out incessantly. Flames shot into the sky, and dirt flew everywhere. The fortifications that had been built over three days and three nights were as fragile as tofu in the face of the shells.

The first round of shelling lasted ten minutes.

Ten minutes later, Battalion Commander Zhang ordered: "Extend firing! Advance two hundred meters!"

The cannon muzzle was raised, and the shell flew to a farther place.

Yamada Ichiro drew his command sword and roared at the soldiers lying on the ground behind him:

"assault!"

More than three thousand Japanese soldiers leaped out from behind their bunkers and charged toward the mountaintop.

This time, the British machine guns went silent.

Those soldiers who survived the artillery fire were stabbed through the skin by Japanese soldiers as soon as they crawled out of their bunkers. Those who were still resisting were blown to pieces by grenades. Those who raised their hands to surrender were simply swept aside—there was no time to care about prisoners.

Yamada Ichiro was at the very front.

He charged through the third trench, through the destroyed fortifications, through the still-burning corpses. He didn't know how many people he had killed, nor how many bullets he had been hit—he only felt pain all over his body, but he couldn't stop.

Finally, he reached the top of the mountain.

On the mountaintop, a huge British flag still flew. Beneath the flagpole, several British officers stood with pistols raised, attempting a final stand.

Yamada Ichiro raised his pistol and aimed it at the colonel who was leading the group.

The colonel also saw him.

The two stared at each other for half a second.

Then, a shot rang out.

Yamada Ichiro's bullet struck the colonel in the chest. The colonel staggered, knelt on the ground, and then collapsed.

Yamada Ichiro walked to the flagpole, drew his bayonet, and began cutting the rope, one cut at a time.

The British flag slowly drifted down, landing on the hilltop riddled with bullet holes and corpses.

Behind them, the soldiers of the Sakura Kingdom began to cheer.

"Long live! Long live!"

Yamada Ichiro did not cheer.

He stood on the mountaintop, looking down at the densely packed corpses below—some British, some Indian, some Burmese, and some Japanese.

Twelve thousand people.

Twelve thousand people from Japan, the land of cherry blossoms, are forever left on this mountain.

At 2 PM, Kazuo Yamamoto reached the summit.

He stood atop the highest rock, overlooking the entire battlefield. Below, stretcher bearers were carrying bodies, one after another, wrapped in white sheets, down the mountain. On the mountainside, the survivors were cleaning up the battlefield, collecting weapons and ammunition, and burying the corpses.

Kenta Doihara walked up to him, holding the newly compiled report in his hand.

"General, the casualties... are heavy."

Kazuo Yamamoto did not turn around.

"How many?"

"12,047 dead and over 10,300 wounded. The 1st and 3rd Divisions were basically decimated, the 2nd Division lost more than half its strength, and only the 4th Division remained relatively intact."

Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for a long time.

Twelve thousand people.

Including the 1,800 from Singapore, Japan has now lost 14,000 people.

He looked at the corpses being carried down the mountain, at the wounded soldiers missing limbs, and at the soldiers sitting on the rocks, staring blankly into space.

"Doihara."

"exist."

"Order all units to rest for three days. After three days, continue the advance towards Kuala Lumpur."

Kenji Doihara was taken aback for a moment.

"General, soldiers..."

“I know,” Yamamoto Kazuo interrupted him, “but the British also know we have suffered heavy casualties. They will amass more troops in Kuala Lumpur, build stronger fortifications, and cause even more of our deaths. If we stop now, all those who died before us will have died in vain.”

He turned around and looked at Kenta Doihara.

"Three days. Let the soldiers have a good meal and a good night's sleep. After three days, continue fighting."

Kenta Doihara was silent for three seconds, then stood at attention.

"yes!"

In the evening, Yamada Ichiro sat on a rock, watching the bonfires burning below.

His unit still has more than 400 men left.

In the battle of Singapore, he still had two thousand men. In the battle of Bendal Hill, he only had four hundred left.

Footsteps sounded nearby. A young soldier approached, carrying two rice balls.

"Colonel, you haven't eaten all day. Have something to eat."

Yamada Ichiro took the rice ball and took a bite. The rice was cold and hard, but he chewed it slowly and carefully.

The young soldier sat next to him, also eating his own rice ball.

"Colonel, should we...continue fighting?"

Yamada Ichiro looked at him.

"Scared?"

The young soldier lowered his head and remained silent.

Yamada Ichiro finished his rice ball and patted the rice grains off his hands.

"Being afraid is the right thing to do. Those who aren't afraid are all dead."

He stood up and patted the young soldier on the shoulder.

"Go back to sleep. We have a long journey ahead tomorrow."

The young soldier stood up, bowed to him, and turned to leave.

Yamada Ichiro remained standing on the rock, watching the campfires.

In the distance, atop Mount Bendal, the Rising Sun Flag still flutters.

But in his eyes, that flag was already stained red with blood.

Late at night, in Kazuo Yamamoto's tent, Masataro Fukuda sat opposite him.

A bottle of sake and two cups were placed in front of the two men. But neither of them drank any.

"Yamamoto-kun," Fukuda Masataro began, his voice hoarse, "do you know about today's events... about those prisoners?"

Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.

he knows.

In the afternoon, while cleaning up the battlefield, some Japanese soldiers captured more than two hundred British prisoners. As the prisoners were being led down the mountain, they passed a pile of corpses—the corpses of the soldiers who had died at the forefront of the charge earlier that day.

Then, it's unclear who fired first. By the time the officers rushed over to stop it, most of the two hundred-plus prisoners were already dead.

"I've taken the soldiers who fired the shots into custody," said Masataro Fukuda. "There were thirty-seven of them in total. What should we do with them?"

Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for a long time.

Then he picked up the glass and drank it all in one gulp.

"Keep them locked up for now. We'll talk about it after the war is over."

"If word gets out..."

"So what if word gets out?" Yamamoto Kazuo looked at him. "Those soldiers were ordered to charge by me. Those prisoners were captured by them. Now that they've killed the prisoners, you want to execute them?"