World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Kazuo Yamamoto stood outside the temporary command post, looking down at the soldiers who were resting below.

The tents stretched out like white mushrooms, but the atmosphere in the camp was deathly still—no laughter, no noise, only the occasional groans of the wounded and the whooshing sound of the wind blowing through the tents. The survivors sat by the campfire, staring blankly at the flames, their eyes so empty that it was hard to look at them for long.

Chief of Staff Kenjiro Doihara strode over, his military boots making a dull thud on the muddy ground. He clutched a telegram in his hand, his face so grave it seemed as if it were about to drip water.

"General, General Zhou Zhenguo is calling."

Kazuo Yamamoto took the telegram and glanced at the few lines of text.

"Casualties are too heavy; the attack is suspended. Reinforcements have departed and will arrive within three days. Their soldiers will be added to your four divisions; ensure that each division is back to full strength. Resume the attack on Kuala Lumpur in three days. — Zhou Zhenguo"

He stared at it for a long time, his fingers tapping lightly on the telegram.

"Fully staffed..." he murmured, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping against steel, "25,000 men per division?"

Kenjiro Doihara nodded: "The four reinforcing divisions total 100,000 men. General Zhou's idea is to disperse these 100,000 men and add them to the existing four divisions, so that we can restore our full combat strength."

Kazuo Yamamoto's finger stopped on the telegram.

"He's giving us a lifeline." He folded the telegram and put it in his pocket. "He's replenishing us veterans with new recruits, using veterans to train new recruits, and maintaining our fighting capacity."

Kenta Doihara hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice and asked, "General, can the soldiers... still fight?"

Kazuo Yamamoto looked up at him.

That look sent a shiver down Kenta Doihara's spine—it was weary, compassionate, yet as hard as steel that had been tempered.

What do you think?

Kenichi Doihara did not answer.

Kazuo Yamamoto turned and looked at the distant Bendal Mountain, which had been stained red. Corpses that had not yet been cleared could still be seen on the mountainside, and crows circled in the sky, cawing shrilly.

"Tell the soldiers that reinforcements have arrived," he said. "New recruits have come to take their place. Let them rest for three days."

He paused, his voice lowering as if speaking to himself: "Three days from now, there will be an even bigger battle to fight."

Yamada Ichiro stood by the roadside, watching the marching troops.

Those were new recruits transported by sea. One hundred thousand men, divided into four groups, were advancing towards the camps of four divisions. They wore brand-new khaki uniforms, carried brand-new Type 38 rifles, and their faces still bore the naivety and curiosity unique to those who had never been on the battlefield.

The road was kicked up with dust. The footsteps were chaotic and disorderly, like the footsteps of a group of children who had just learned to walk. Some people looked around, some talked in hushed tones, and some secretly wiped away sweat—it was already tropical, but they were still wearing the thick military uniforms brought by the Northern Division.

A young soldier walked past him and couldn't help but glance at him again—looking at his bandaged left shoulder, his tired face, and the indelible gunpowder stains and dark brown bloodstains on his uniform.

Yamada Ichiro also looked at the soldier.

The boy looked to be under twenty, with fine downy hair on his upper lip. He carried a gun on his back, puffed out his chest, and tried to look like a veteran, but his eyes betrayed him—clear, clean eyes that had never seen blood.

"What's your name?" Yamada Ichiro suddenly asked.

The young soldier hesitated for a moment, then hurriedly stood at attention, almost tripping over his own foot: "Reporting, sir! My name is Tanaka Ichiro, from Hokkaido!"

Yamada Ichiro nodded.

"Tanaka, have you ever killed anyone?"

Tanaka Ichiro's face turned deathly pale instantly. He opened his mouth, making gurgling sounds in his throat, before finally managing to squeeze out, "Not...not yet, sir."

Yamada Ichiro walked over and stood in front of him. He was half a head shorter than Tanaka Ichiro, but Tanaka Ichiro felt as if that mountain was pressing down on him.

He reached out and patted his shoulder—the force was neither too light nor too heavy, but it made Tanaka Ichiro tremble all over.

"You'll be killing soon," Yamada Ichiro said, his voice as calm as if he were commenting on the weather. "You'll also watch the people around you get killed. If you're unlucky, you'll be killed yourself."

Tanaka Ichiro opened his mouth, unable to speak.

Are you scared?

Tanaka Ichiro was silent for three seconds, then nodded vigorously. The nod was so wide that his hat tilted to the side.

"Afraid."

Yamada Ichiro suddenly laughed—a laugh he himself didn't even realize was tinged with sadness.

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

He turned to his adjutant behind him and said, "Assign this soldier to the 3rd Battalion of the 1st Regiment. He'll follow me."

The adjutant stood at attention: "Yes, sir!"

Tanaka Ichiro stood there, stunned, watching the bandaged figure gradually disappear into the distance. The sunlight stretched his shadow long, casting it on the dusty road.

An old soldier walked over and patted him on the shoulder. The old soldier had a scar on his face that ran from his eyebrow to his chin, making him look fierce.

"Kid, you're lucky. Someone Colonel Yamada personally wanted has a better chance of surviving."

Tanaka Ichiro wanted to ask why, but the old soldier was already gone.

He stood there, looking at the marching troops, at the unfamiliar faces, and at the endless rows of tents in the distance.

Three days later, he was to follow the wounded colonel to attack Kuala Lumpur.

What he didn't know was that this trip would allow him to witness firsthand what hell truly was.

The tent was packed with people—the commanders of the four divisions, the regimental commanders, the artillery commanders, the logistics officers, the communications officers, and several liaison officers from Lanfang. A kerosene lamp hung in the center of the tent, its flame flickering slightly in the night wind, casting everyone's shadows on the canvas like a group of silent ghosts dancing.

Kazuo Yamamoto stood in front of a huge map of Malaya, holding a thin bamboo pole in his hand.

The map was densely marked with red and blue pencil marks—red arrows indicated their attack directions, blue circles represented British defensive positions, and black crosses marked minefields and machine gun emplacements.

"Kuala Lumpur." He pointed to the location marked with a red circle on the map, tapping it lightly with a bamboo stick. "Do you know how many troops the British have amassed here?"

No one answered.

The tent was so quiet that you could hear the hissing of the kerosene lamp wick burning.

"Intelligence indicates at least 45,000 men. Two British Indian divisions transferred from Burma, an Australian brigade, plus local Malayan colonial troops. Well-equipped, and morale... not yet collapsed."

He paused, then drew a circle on the map with the bamboo pole, from the north of the city to the east, and then from the west to the south.

"Kuala Lumpur is the capital of Malaya and the center of British rule in Malaya. It has well-developed fortifications, sturdy buildings, and a maze of streets. Once you break in, it's all about street fighting."

He turned and looked at the silent generals.

The light from the kerosene lamp cast deep shadows on their faces. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes sunken, and stubble grew unkempt. In the battle of Bendal, who among them hadn't lost several brothers?

"You all know what urban warfare means."

Lieutenant General Kimura, commander of the 1st Division, spoke, his voice hoarse like a broken bellows: "General, how many men do we have?"

"With the newly recruited soldiers, the four divisions are now at full strength, totaling 100,000 men."

A slight commotion arose inside the tent.

One hundred thousand men against forty-five thousand. More than double the troop strength.

But no one cheered.

Because everyone knows that in siege warfare, especially street fighting, the attackers always suffer far greater casualties than the defenders. In the Battle of Bendal, they captured the hill defended by 8,000 British troops at the cost of 12,000 men.

What about Kuala Lumpur?

How many of the 45,000 British troops would die?

Kazuo Yamamoto looked at those silent faces.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, his voice low but each word like nails driven into a board. "Many people will die. Maybe more than at Mount Bendal."

He put down the bamboo pole and braced his hands on the table. The edges of the table were already soaked with sweat.

"But we must fight. If we take Kuala Lumpur, Malaya will be ours. The British will be completely driven out of the Malay Peninsula. Our supply lines will be safe. We will have a foothold in Southeast Asia."

He scanned everyone.

"Three days later, at four in the morning, the general offensive began. The 1st and 2nd Divisions attacked from the north, and the 3rd and 4th Divisions attacked from the east. The artillery began its covering fire two hours in advance."

He paused.

"I have only one request: Take Kuala Lumpur. No matter how many people die."

There was a three-second silence inside the tent.

Then everyone stood up at the same time, and the wooden chairs scraped against the ground with a screeching sound.

"yes!"

That "Yes" sounded like a roar from his chest, making the flame of the kerosene lamp flicker.