World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Lin Zhongfu opened his mouth, making gurgling sounds in his throat, before finally managing to squeeze out, "General, I don't know."

"I don't know either." Ohara Den turned around and continued looking at the two battleships in front of him. "But I know that many will die. Maybe more than in Malaya."

Lin Zhongfu stood there, unsure of what to say.

In the distance, the signal lights of the Zhenyuan began to flash. A communications soldier ran over: "General, General Zhou Zhenguo has called: the fleet has entered Motama Bay, 120 nautical miles from Yangon. It should reach its firing positions by tomorrow morning."

Ohara Den nodded.

"Reply: Received."

He paused, then said, "Order all divisions to have an extra meal tonight. Let the soldiers have a good meal."

Lin Zhongfu was taken aback: "General, this..."

"We're going to war tomorrow," Ohara Den interrupted him. "Let them have a good meal. Maybe... it'll be their last."

Lin Zhongfu was silent for three seconds, then stood at attention: "Yes, sir!"

He turned and went to relay the order.

Ohara Den remained standing on the bridge, gazing at the silhouettes of the two battleships. The setting sun was sinking below the horizon, bathing the entire sea in a golden-red hue. In the golden-red light, the two colossal ships resembled two moving mountains, silently advancing forward.

Footsteps sounded behind him. A young officer walked over and saluted.

"General, dinner is ready."

Ohara Den did not turn back.

"I'm not hungry."

The officer hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he said nothing and turned to leave.

Ohara Den stood there alone, looking at the golden-red sea.

He recalled his early days in the army many years ago. He was nineteen then, standing on the training field, listening to his instructors' speeches. The instructors said that soldiers of the Sakura Kingdom must be loyal to the Emperor and die for the Empire.

At that time, he felt that death was very distant and abstract, like words in a book or symbols in a painting.

At four in the morning, the sea in Motama Bay was pitch black.

Tanaka Jiro lay prone on the deck of the landing craft, his hands gripping his Type 38 rifle tightly. The butt of the rifle pressed painfully against his chest, so painful that he could count the grains of the wood. But he dared not move—he was afraid that if he moved, he would wet his pants.

The landing craft was packed with people. Soldiers from the 2nd Regiment of the 9th Division were crammed together like sardines. No one spoke, only heavy breathing and the occasional gagging sound. The stench of the sea mixed with the smell of sweat was so strong it made one want to vomit.

A young soldier nearby muttered under his breath, "Why haven't we arrived yet..."

Another veteran hissed at him in a low voice, "Shut up! Just wait!"

The young soldier shrank back, not daring to speak again.

Tanaka Jiro closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. But as soon as he closed them, he remembered the letter he had received three days earlier. It was from his older brother, Tanaka Ichiro, in Malaya; the letter was short, only a few lines:

"Jiro, I'm still alive. The war in Malaya is over, 40,000 people died. I don't know how I survived, but I'm still alive. You have to live too. Once you're ashore, don't think too much, just stay alive."

Just being alive is enough.

Tanaka Jiro opened his eyes and stared at the tightly closed hatch at the front of the landing craft. Behind the hatch lay the sea, the beach, British machine guns, and bullets that could fly in at any moment.

He suddenly felt the urge to urinate.

The feeling was so intense that he almost wanted to unzip his pants right there. But there were people all around, and he was too embarrassed. He could only hold it in, his lower abdomen tightening and the muscles on the inside of his thighs twitching.

The landing craft jolted violently and ran aground on the beach.

The hatch slammed shut.

In that instant, seawater rushed in, icy cold, up to my ankles, up to my knees, up to my thighs. It carried a strong fishy smell—I couldn't tell if it was the smell of the sea or the smell of blood.

"Rush!"

Someone shouted.

Tanaka Jiro jumped into the sea. The water was waist-deep, and every step required immense effort. Holding his gun, he trudged through the sand at the bottom of the sea, desperately rushing towards the beach. He was surrounded by people, densely packed, like a school of fish driven into the sea.

One hundred meters. Eighty meters. Fifty meters—

The British opened fire.

In that instant, Tanaka Jiro felt as if the world had been torn apart.

It wasn't a single gunshot, but countless gunshots mingling together, like ten thousand drums beating in your ears simultaneously. Bullets swept through like a torrential rain, whistling sharply. Soldiers around me fell in droves; some were hit in the head, blood splattering their faces; some were shot through the chest, screaming as they plunged into the sea; some dragged their broken legs across the ground, riddled with bullets by follow-up shots.

The seawater began to turn red.

"Lie down!" someone shouted.

Tanaka Jiro collapsed into the sea, burying his face in the sand. Bullets whizzed overhead, striking the landing craft behind him with a clanging sound. Waves of seawater washed over him, carrying a warm, sweet, and briny scent. He knew it was blood—the blood of those who had fallen around him.

"Long live!"

A frenzied shout came from behind. Tanaka Jiro looked up and saw Colonel Ono, the commander of the Second Regiment, draw his command sword and point it at the beachhead. The blade gleamed coldly in the morning light, like a bolt of lightning.

"Hurray! Charge! Kill them all!"

The soldiers scrambled to their feet, their eyes bloodshot, and charged toward the beach. No one dodged, no one lay down; they charged straight into the machine gun fire. Some were hit and fell, but those behind them trampled over their bodies and continued charging. That madness, that reckless madness, sent shivers down Tanaka Jiro's spine.

He got up and followed suit.

Bullets whizzed past his ears; he could feel the wind, he could feel death brushing against his skin. Soldiers around him fell one after another, but no one stopped. They couldn't stop; to stop meant death.

Twenty meters. Ten meters. Five meters—

He rushed onto the beach.

The ground beneath his feet was soft, sandy, something he couldn't tell was rubbing against the soles of his feet. He didn't look down, he dared not look. He only knew to run forward, to rush forward, forward—

Ahead, the first trench of the British army is right in front of us.

Amar lay prone in the trench, his finger tightly gripping the trigger of his Lee-Enfield rifle.

He was a Punjabi from India who had been drafted three months earlier and traveled by boat for half a month to reach Burma. His superior officer said that Burma was British territory and that they had to defend it from invasion by the Japanese. The officer also said that the Japanese were all short and easily defeated.

Now, people from Japan are really coming to visit the cherry blossoms.

Amar watched through his scope as soldiers charged up from the sea—clad in khaki uniforms, rifles in hand, shouting as they went. Their shouts could be heard hundreds of meters away, like the howls of a pack of wild beasts.

"Fire!" the officer roared.

Amal pulled the trigger. The butt of the rifle slammed against his shoulder, the impact causing a sharp pain. He saw a Japanese soldier fall to the ground, plunging into the sea and never rising again.

He pulled the bolt again, aimed, and fired. Another one fell.

Pull back, aim again, fire again. Another one.

But his fingers began to tremble.