World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Masataro Fukuda remained silent.

Kazuo Yamamoto poured himself another glass of wine.

"Fukuda, do you know what I saw when I went up the mountain today?"

Masataro Fukuda shook his head.

"I saw a soldier holding his comrade's head, crying. That head—only the head. The body was blown off somewhere." Kazuo Yamamoto's voice was calm, but that calmness was all the more distressing. "I also saw a soldier stabbing a British officer with a bayonet. He stabbed him more than a dozen times, and he kept stabbing. His eyes were red, he couldn't see anything, he just kept stabbing."

He drank that glass of wine.

"These soldiers weren't born devils. It was this war that turned them into this."

Masataro Fukuda remained silent for a long time.

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

"Yamamoto-kun, after we finish fighting in Kuala Lumpur... will we be able to go back to being normal?"

Kazuo Yamamoto did not answer.

Outside the tent, the wind blew across the battlefield, carrying the smells of blood and burnt food. In the distance, someone was singing—a folk song from the land of cherry blossoms, about the cherry blossoms of their hometown and the rice balls their mother made.

The song sounded especially mournful on this battlefield littered with corpses.

At 3 a.m., at the temporary camp at the foot of Mount Bendal.

Yamada Ichiro sat on a rock, a small campfire burning in front of him. The firelight cast his shadow long, long, across the tent behind him. He had been sitting there for three hours, motionless and silent, just staring blankly at the fire.

The wound on his left shoulder started hurting again. Blood seeped through the bandage, mixing with sweat and making it sticky. But he didn't change the dressing, didn't call for help, and just endured the pain.

Footsteps sounded from the side. The adjutant came over carrying two rice balls and sat down next to him.

"Colonel, you haven't eaten all day. This is freshly heated up, have some."

Yamada Ichiro took the rice ball and took a bite. The rice was soft, filled with pickled vegetables, and tasted good. But he chewed very slowly, as if he were chewing sand.

The adjutant looked at him, seemingly wanting to say something but holding back.

"Speak your mind."

The adjutant hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice: "Colonel, have you heard about that incident this afternoon...?"

Yamada Ichiro paused his chewing for a moment.

"What is it?"

"Regarding the prisoners," the adjutant's voice lowered, "the Third Regiment captured over two hundred British prisoners. While escorting them down the mountain, they passed a pile of our soldiers' corpses… and then, we don't know who fired first. By the time the officers rushed over to stop them, over a hundred were already dead."

Yamada Ichiro put down the rice ball.

"And now?"

"The remaining prisoners were imprisoned. The soldiers who fired the shots were also imprisoned. I heard there were thirty-seven of them."

Yamada Ichiro remained silent for a long time.

He recalled the scene of the charge that morning. The soldiers charged three times, and were driven back three times. The last time, he saw with his own eyes a young soldier—who looked to be no more than twenty years old—be hit by a shell and blown in two. His upper body flew several meters, and when he landed on the ground, his eyes were still open.

He remembered the soldier's eyes. He would never forget that look.

It wasn't fear, it wasn't pain, it was an indescribable, empty feeling, like nothing was left.

"Colonel?" the adjutant called him softly.

Yamada Ichiro snapped out of his daze.

"What do you think of those thirty-seven people?"

The adjutant paused, then shook his head: "I...I don't know. They killed prisoners, which is against military discipline. But...but they just lost so many comrades, watching their friends get blown up and killed..."

He couldn't continue.

Yamada Ichiro looked at the campfire; the flames danced in the night wind like countless struggling hands.

"Go back to sleep. Let the higher-ups handle this."

The adjutant stood up, bowed to him, and turned to leave.

Yamada Ichiro remained seated, staring at the fire.

He recalled something his instructor had said when he first joined the army: "War will turn good people into devils, and devils into good people. After you've finished fighting, look in the mirror, and you might not even recognize who you are."

He didn't believe it at the time.

Now he believes it.

At four o'clock in the morning, the lights were still on in Kazuo Yamamoto's tent.

He sat on his cot, a map of Malaya spread out in front of him. Bundal Hill was marked "occupied," and the next target—Kuala Lumpur—was circled in a large red circle.

Kendai Doihara lifted the tent flap and walked in, holding a cup of hot tea in his hand.

"General, you haven't slept all night again."

Kazuo Yamamoto took the tea, but didn't drink it; he placed it on the box next to him.

"I can't sleep."

He looked at the map and pointed to the location of Kuala Lumpur.

"Doihara, how many troops do you think the British will station in Kuala Lumpur?"

Kenji Doihara thought for a moment: "The two divisions transferred from Burma should have arrived by now. Adding the ragtag troops recruited from Malaya, it's at least... 40,000 men."

"Forty thousand men," Yamamoto Kazuo repeated. "And us? How many of us are still capable of fighting?"

Kenji Doihara remained silent for three seconds.

"The First Division has more than 3,000 men left, the Second Division has 4,000 men left, and the Third Division has been decimated, with less than 2,000 men still operational. The Fourth Division is more intact, with 20,000 men remaining. Including artillery, engineers, and logistics... the total number of men available for combat is about 30,000."

Kazuo Yamamoto closed his eyes.

30,000 versus 40,000.

Moreover, the British were on the defensive, while they were on the offensive.

"General," Kenta Doihara said softly, "the soldiers are exhausted. The losses at Mount Bendal were too great. If we don't rest soon, we'll have to attack Kuala Lumpur directly..."

"I know," Yamamoto Kazuo interrupted him, "but the British won't wait for us to rest. They'll only swarm in and fortify their positions. By the time we're ready, we might be facing 60,000, 80,000 men."

He opened his eyes and looked at Kenta Doihara.

"Order all divisions to rest for three days. After three days, continue the advance northward."

Ken Doihara opened his mouth wide, as if to say something, but ultimately remained silent. He stood at attention, saluted, and turned to leave.

Only Yamamoto Kazuo remained in the tent.

He stood up, walked to the tent entrance, lifted the curtain, and looked out at the night.

In the distance, atop Mount Bendal, a campfire burned. It was the sentry's campfire, a reminder to everyone—the mountain was still there, the position was still there, they had won.

But he knew that the price of winning would be too high.

It was so overwhelming that he didn't know how to face the families of the deceased, how to face those who were still alive but had changed, or how to face himself.

The wind blew in from the other side of the mountain, carrying the smell of blood and burnt food.

Kazuo Yamamoto took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

"Twelve thousand people," he murmured. "Twelve thousand fine sons of the Cherry Blossom Country... all for this mountain."

No one answered him.

Only the wind is still blowing.