World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The ruins of Kuala Lumpur are still smoking.

Kazuo Yamamoto stood on the earthen slope outside the temporary command post, watching the soldiers who were resting. For three days, from the capture of Kuala Lumpur until now, he hadn't slept a full night. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the faces of those who had died in the streets and alleys—British soldiers, his own, and those dismembered limbs whose identities were indistinguishable.

Chief of Staff Kenjiro Doihara strode over, his boots creaking on the broken bricks. He clutched a telegram in his hand, his face bearing a complex expression—as if he had breathed a sigh of relief, or perhaps taken another deep breath.

"General, General Zhou Zhenguo is calling."

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

"Your unit is fully responsible for clearing out the remaining British forces in Malaya. After three days of rest, divide your forces and advance. Targets: Kuantan, Ipoh, and Penang. You must control the entire territory within two months. — Zhou Zhenguo"

Full command.

Kazuo Yamamoto folded the telegram and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Full command," he repeated, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping against steel, "meaning to gnaw the remaining bones clean."

Kenjiro Doihara hesitated for a moment: "General, the soldiers are too exhausted. Tens of thousands of casualties... they need time to recover."

Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent.

He looked at the soldiers sitting on the ruins in the distance—some leaning against the broken wall in a daze, some scribbling something on the ground with their bayonets, some staring motionlessly into the void. He had seen that look in their eyes far too many times; it was the look of those who had become numb. Their eyes were empty, devoid of anything, like two dry wells.

"Can they still fight?" Yamamoto Kazuo suddenly asked.

Kenjiro Doihara was taken aback for a moment, then shook his head: "I don't know, General."

Kazuo Yamamoto walked down the slope and headed towards the camp.

As he passed an open space, he saw a young soldier sitting there, hugging his knees and burying his face between his legs. His shoulders were shaking, but there was no sound—that kind of silent crying was more distressing than wailing.

Kazuo Yamamoto stopped beside him.

"What's your name?"

The soldier looked up abruptly, his face streaked with tears, his eyes swollen and red like two walnuts. He hurriedly stood up, nearly tripping over his own foot, and stammered, "Reporting, General, my name is Yamada Taro, 1st Regiment, 1st Division!"

First Regiment

Kazuo Yamamoto's heart sank. The First Regiment had 2,500 men when it attacked Kuala Lumpur, and only 273 survived. He had seen the casualty statistics and knew what they meant.

"Yamada, can you still fight?"

Yamada Kazusa was stunned. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but something seemed to be stuck in his throat, and he couldn't make a sound.

Kazuo Yamamoto looked at him and waited.

After a long silence, Yamada finally spoke, his voice barely audible, like a mosquito's hum: "General, I...I don't know."

He looked down at his hands. His hands were still trembling.

"I've killed many people, General. Too many to count." His voice trailed off. "I can see them with my eyes closed. Those I killed, standing before me, looking at me..."

Kazuo Yamamoto reached out and placed his hand on his shoulder.

That hand was very strong and steady.

"Yamada, do you know why I'm still standing here?"

Yamada Ichisuke looked up and stared at him blankly.

"Because I've also killed many people," Kazuo Yamamoto said. "Too many to count. I can see them even with my eyes closed."

He paused, his voice lowering, "But we must stand. If we fall, those who died will have died in vain."

Yamada's tears welled up again and streamed down her cheeks.

"But General, I...I'm so tired..."

"I know." Yamamoto Kazuo patted him on the shoulder. "That's why I'm giving you three days off. After three days, we'll have to keep fighting."

He turned and left, leaving Yamada standing there alone.

Behind me, the young soldier's sobs could be faintly heard, mixed with the sound of the wind, and were not clearly audible.

Kenjiro Doihara followed, seemingly wanting to say something but then stopping himself.

"Say whatever you want to say."

Kenta Doihara hesitated for a moment: "General, those soldiers... are they really still able to fight?"

Kazuo Yamamoto did not answer.

He continued walking, passing tent after tent. People were inside and outside the tents; some were lying down, some sitting, some standing in a daze. No one spoke; the entire camp was as quiet as a giant tomb.

He stopped at the entrance of the command center.

"Order all divisions," he said, without turning back, "to rest for three days. After three days, divide your forces and sweep through. Targets: Kuantan, Ipoh, and Penang."

Kenjiro Doihara stood at attention: "Yes, sir!"

Kazuo Yamamoto pushed open the door and walked into the command post.

The room contained only a table, a map, and a kerosene lamp. He stood before the map, gazing at the areas not yet covered in red. Kuantan, Ipoh, Penang—cities, outposts, each one potentially capable of killing hundreds, thousands more.

His hand was on the map, on the location of Penang.

"Forty thousand," he murmured. "How many more have to die before we can finish?"

No one answered him.

Outside the window, the setting sun was sinking below the horizon. Golden-red light streamed in, casting dappled shadows on the map. Those shadows resembled blood, fire, and the eyes of those who would never return.

At the same moment, in the Indian Ocean.

Dozens of transport ships formed a massive formation, sailing northeast under the escort of the Lanfang Navy. The convoy stretched for over ten kilometers, resembling a giant serpent slowly crawling across the sea when viewed from above.

Vice Admiral Ohara stood on the bridge of his flagship, the "Shinshu Maru," peering through binoculars at the two massive battleships ahead. The Zhenyuan and Jiyuan, 45,000-ton steel behemoths, gleamed with a cold metallic sheen in the afternoon sun. Their eight 380mm main guns were raised high, like eight eyes poised to pounce on their prey.

Major General Lin Zhongfu, the chief of staff, walked up to him, holding a stack of documents in his hand.

"General, reports from all divisions: the soldiers are in good condition. Few are seasick, medicines are plentiful, and fresh water and food are enough for half a month."

Ohara Den nodded without saying anything.

Lin Zhongfu hesitated for a moment, then said, "General, you've been standing for four hours. Take a break."

Ohara Den put down his binoculars and turned to look at him.

"Mr. Lin, do you know how many people have died in Malaya?"

Lin Zhongfu was taken aback: "I heard... more than forty thousand."

"Forty-two thousand." Ohara said calmly, "Yamamoto-kun traded forty-two thousand lives for Malaya."

He raised his binoculars again, looking at the densely packed soldiers on the transport ship decks. He couldn't make out their faces from several nautical miles away, but he knew they were all young. Some might have just turned eighteen, some might have wives and children waiting for them at home, and some might never have even held a woman's hand.

"Lin Jun, how many of our 100,000 people do you think will make it back alive from Myanmar?"

Lin Zhongfu remained silent.

Ohara Den put down his binoculars and looked at him.

"say."