World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Colonel Yamada remained silent.

Kazuo Yamamoto looked at him, at his gaunt face, at his bandaged left arm, at his empty eyes.

How many men are left in your unit?

Two hundred and seventy-three.

Kazuo Yamamoto closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Yamada, do you remember what His Majesty the Locust said before we set off?"

Colonel Yamada shook his head.

"His Majesty said that the Sakura Kingdom has waited seven hundred years, and finally this day has arrived." Yamamoto Kazuo opened his eyes. "But Yamada, how much blood was shed to buy this day?"

Yamada remained silent for a long time.

Then he said, "General, the blood has already been shed. There's no point in saying anything now."

Kazuo Yamamoto looked at him and nodded.

"Yes, it's pointless."

In the distance, a soldier suddenly began to sing. It was a folk song from the land of cherry blossoms, a song about the cherry blossoms of his hometown and the rice balls his mother made. His voice was hoarse and off-key, but in a city littered with corpses, it sounded especially mournful.

One person sang, two people sang, ten people sang. More and more people joined in, and finally the entire square echoed with that desolate song.

As Yamada listened to the song, his eyes welled up with tears.

He blinked, suppressing the sour feeling.

"General, what's the next step?"

Kazuo Yamamoto looked at the soldiers in the square, at the buildings that were still burning, and at the Rising Sun Flag fluttering in the sunset.

"Rest. Replenish. Then, continue north."

Yamada Kazusa nodded.

He turned and walked towards the two hundred and seventy-three soldiers. Halfway there, he suddenly stopped, turned back, and asked:

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"General, how many British are still in Burma?"

Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for three seconds.

"One hundred thousand."

Yamada nodded and continued walking forward.

Behind them, the singing continued.

The soldiers were still waiting for him ahead.

The setting sun shone on the ruins of Kuala Lumpur, turning everything blood red. It was the color of 22,000 lives lost, the color of endless bloodshed, the color of a rising sun flag.

Colonel Yamada walked into that blood-red abyss and never looked back.

8 PM, temporary prisoner-of-war camp.

Brigadier General Robert Gurney was imprisoned in a house that had once been a warehouse. The house was large and crowded with people—British soldiers, Indian soldiers, Australian soldiers, and a few civilians in civilian clothes. Some lay on the floor groaning, some leaned against the wall in a daze, and some hugged their knees and sobbed quietly.

Brigadier General Gurney leaned against a pillar, watching the men.

Three days ago, they were soldiers. Dressed in neat uniforms, armed with sophisticated weapons, guarding fortified positions. Now, they are crammed here like a herd of livestock, awaiting their unknown fate.

The door was pushed open, and several Japanese soldiers walked in. They carried rifles, their bayonets gleaming coldly in the kerosene lamplight. The leading officer glanced around, his gaze settling on Brigadier General Gurney.

"You, come out."

Brigadier General Gurney stood up and slowly walked over.

Stepping out of the warehouse, there was an open space. Moonlight shone on the ground, revealing the corpses lying haphazardly—they hadn't been buried yet, just left there.

The officer led him into a small building next door. They went up to the second floor, pushed open a door, and found a person sitting inside.

Kazuo Yamamoto.

The kerosene lamp shone on his face, making the deep nasolabial folds particularly noticeable. He looked up at Brigadier General Gurney and gestured for him to sit down.

Brigadier General Gurney sat opposite him.

The two stared at each other for three seconds.

"Are you the commander?" Yamamoto Kazuo asked.

Brigadier General Gurney nodded.

"Brigadier General Robert Gurney, Deputy Commander of the Indian 3rd Division."

Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.

"You guys played well."

Brigadier General Gurney paused for a moment.

"What?"

"You fought well," Yamamoto Kazuo repeated. "I lost 22,000 soldiers before I took this city."

Brigadier General Gurney remained silent.

Kazuo Yamamoto stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the ruins of Kuala Lumpur looked particularly desolate under the moonlight, with a few flickering flames like will-o'-the-wisps from hell.

"General," he suddenly asked, "who do you think will win this war?"

Brigadier General Gurney did not answer.

Kazuo Yamamoto turned around and looked at him.

"You've lost. Singapore has lost, Kuala Lumpur has lost, Malaya has lost. Next, Myanmar will lose, India will lose. You can't hold on."

Brigadier General Gurney finally spoke, his voice hoarse: "Why are you telling me all this?"

Kazuo Yamamoto walked back to the table and sat down.

"Because I want you to live."

He paused, took a piece of paper from the drawer, and pushed it in front of Brigadier General Gurney.

"Sign this, and you'll live."

Brigadier General Gurney looked down—it was a surrender document acknowledging the British defeat in the Malayan campaign and calling on British troops in Burma to cease resistance.

His hands clenched on the table, then relaxed.

"I won't sign."

Yamamoto Kazuo looked at him, his eyes showing no anger, only an indescribable weariness.

"You will die."

Brigadier General Gurney nodded.

"I know."

Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for a long time.

Then he took the paper back, tore it in half, and threw it into the brazier beside him. The paper burned, emitting a faint light.

"Go," he said. "Go back and tell your soldiers to live well. The war will eventually end."

Brigadier General Gurney was stunned.

"You...let me go?"

Kazuo Yamamoto did not answer.

He stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Brigadier General Gurney.

"Let's go. Before I change my mind."

Brigadier General Gurney stood up, staring blankly at the retreating figure. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but ultimately said nothing, turned, and walked out the door.

Kazuo Yamamoto stood by the window, looking at the ruins under the moonlight.

Behind him, the paper scraps in the brazier had burned to ashes, which were scattered by the wind.

At four o'clock in the morning, Colonel Yamada found Ichiro Tanaka at the temporary camp.

The boy leaned against a pile of rubble, staring at the sky with his eyes open. His uniform was soaked in blood, his face was covered in ash, and his lips were cracked, but his eyes were still open—those empty, unseeing eyes.

Colonel Yamada sat down next to him.

"Still alive?"

Ichiro Tanaka did not answer.

Yamada took out half a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, and handed it to him.

Tanaka Ichiro took the cigarette and put it in his mouth. Yamada Ichisuke lit a famous match and leaned closer. The light illuminated the face—a young face, devoid of any expression.

He took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

"Colonel," he finally spoke, his voice hoarse and unlike his own, "how many people have I killed?"

Yamada did not answer.

"I've lost count," Tanaka Ichiro continued. "I killed a few on the first day, a few more on the second day, and then... I stopped counting. There were just too many."

He took a drag of his cigarette, his eyes still fixed on the sky.

"I closed my eyes and saw them. The blond Englishman, the Indian soldier I stabbed to death with my bayonet, and that...that kid, who looked only a teenager, with his hands raised as if to surrender, but I..."

His voice trailed off.

Yamada sat there without saying a word, just smoking.

Tanaka Ichiro remained silent for a long time.

Then he suddenly asked, "Colonel, can I still go home?"

Yamada looked at that young face, at those empty eyes, at those tears that would never flow again.

"Yes," he said.

Tanaka Ichiro turned his head and looked at him.

"real?"

Yamada nodded.

"real."

Tanaka Ichiro laughed. It was the ugliest laugh Yamada Ichisuke had ever seen.