World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

There were just too many Japanese soldiers. Kill one, and ten more would charge. Kill ten, and a hundred would rush forward. They didn't dodge, they didn't lie down, they just charged straight at the bullets. Some were shot in the leg, but crawled forward on their knees; others were shot in the abdomen, their intestines spilling out, but they still used their bayonets to support themselves as they moved forward.

The Vickers machine gun beside them was firing wildly, its barrel glowing red-hot. The gunner, shirtless and drenched in sweat, was cursing under his breath. Scrap bullets clattered and fell to the ground, piling up in a small heap.

But the Japanese soldiers were still charging. Closer and closer—

Amar suddenly saw a face.

He was a young soldier from Japan, looking no more than twenty years old. His face was covered in seawater and sand, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was charging towards the trench, rifle in hand, the bayonet gleaming coldly in the morning light.

Amar aimed at him and pulled the trigger.

Stuck.

He frantically pulled the bolt, but the bullet was jammed and he couldn't pull it back. He pulled again, but still couldn't move it.

The Japanese soldier was getting closer and closer. Thirty meters, twenty meters, ten meters—

Amar threw down his gun and ran away.

He didn't know what he was running for, only that he had to run, to get away from here, to get away from those fearless people. He ran around the corner of the trench, stepped on a corpse, and almost fell. He grabbed the trench wall and kept running.

People were running around them too. One, two, ten, a hundred.

The collapse spread like a plague. Amar watched as the Indian soldiers around him threw down their guns one by one and turned to flee. The British officer fired from behind, killing two deserters, but it was no use. More men surged forward, knocking the British officer down and trampling him underfoot.

Amal heard shouts behind him—the shouts of the Japanese, growing closer and closer—

"Long live!"

When Tanaka Jiro jumped into the trench, his legs buckled and he knelt down.

The trenches were full of dead bodies. British soldiers, Indian soldiers, and a few Japanese soldiers—I don't know if they had rushed in earlier—their bodies were still warm, blood still flowing. The blood had soaked the mud at the bottom of the trenches into a dark red color, making it sticky to walk on.

He was gasping for breath, his ears ringing, unable to hear anything. His left leg was cut by shrapnel, blood streaming down his trouser leg, but he felt no pain. His eyes were watering from the gunpowder smoke, making everything blurry.

Beside him lay an Indian soldier, still alive, his eyes open, staring at him. The man had been shot in the abdomen, his intestines spilling out and piling up on his stomach, still wriggling. He opened his mouth, trying to shout something, but could only make hoarse sounds, like a leaky bellows.

Tanaka Jiro stared at the man, stunned for a second.

Then he raised his gun, bayonet pointed at the man's chest.

The Indian soldier's eyes suddenly widened. He reached out, trying to grab something, but couldn't. His lips moved, as if he were saying something. Tanaka Jiro couldn't understand, but he knew it was a plea for mercy.

His hands were shaking.

The Indian soldier continued speaking, clasped his hands together, raised them above his head, and kowtowed to the ground. Blood gushed from the wound in his abdomen, flowing everywhere.

Tanaka Jiro closed his eyes and thrust the bayonet forward.

He would never forget that scream.

He pulled out his bayonet, and the man twitched twice before becoming still.

Tanaka Jiro leaned against the trench wall, panting heavily. His hands were still trembling, his whole body was shaking. He stared at the bloodstained bayonet, at the still-bleeding corpse, at the dark red blood slowly seeping into the soil.

"stand up!"

Someone kicked him. He looked up and saw an old soldier with a blood-stained face yelling at him. The old soldier had a deep wound above his left eye, and blood smeared half of his face, but his eyes were frighteningly bright.

"Get up! Keep charging! Second trench!"

Tanaka Jiro struggled to his feet. The wound on his leg throbbed with pain, but he ignored it. He picked up his gun and ran after the old soldier.

At the end of the trench, the sound of gunfire still rang out.

"Reporting to the general, the 2nd Regiment of the 9th Division has broken through the first line of British defenses. However... the losses are heavy."

Ohara Den stood on the bridge of the transport ship, looking through binoculars at the blood-stained beach. From his distance, he couldn't see the faces of the fallen men, but he could see the countless bodies lying on the sand—piles of corpses, washed by the waves, the seawater already dark red.

He didn't turn around: "How much?"

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu's voice trembled slightly: "Of the three thousand men in the Second Regiment, less than eight hundred remain. Regiment Commander Colonel Ono has been killed in action."

Ohara Den remained silent for three seconds.

He saw the soldiers still charging in the distance—they had reached the beach and were advancing towards the British second line of defense. Some of the people lying on the beach were still moving, while others were motionless. Wave after wave surged in, turning the corpses over and over like a pile of discarded rag dolls.

"Order the 9th Division's reserves, both regiments, to commit to the beachhead," Ohara said, his voice eerily calm. "Tell the new regimental commander to take the second line of defense at all costs."

Lin Zhongfu was taken aback: "General, the Ninth Division only has four regiments..."

"I know," Ohara interrupted him, "but the British army is collapsing. If we don't increase our forces now, more will die once they regain their footing."

Lin Zhongfu gritted his teeth and turned to relay the order.

Ohara Den continued to hold up his binoculars, looking at the hellish beach.

The second wave of landing craft was rushing towards the beach. The craft were packed with people, and the soldiers had no idea what awaited them. They might die, they might be maimed, or they might become like the first wave, motionless rag dolls on the beach.

On the distant sea, several Lanfang cruisers were approaching the coastline. Their cannons spat fire, and shells whistled towards the British positions. One by one, the machine gun emplacements that were still putting up a fight were blown to pieces. Dirt, wood, and human remains were hurled into the air and then fell back down.

Further away, the silhouettes of the two giant warships, Zhenyuan and Jiyuan, stood out majestically in the morning light. Their 380mm main guns occasionally spewed flames dozens of meters long, shells crossing the beachhead and landing deep within the British lines. Each explosion sent up clouds of mud and limbs flying. The deep, rumbling sound could be heard even from several kilometers away.

"General," the communications officer ran over, "General Zhou Zhenguo's telegram: Battleships will extend their bombardment to suppress the British rear. Cruisers will continue to support the beachhead. Best wishes for victory."

Ohara Den nodded.

He looked back at the beach. The second wave of landing craft had reached the shore, and soldiers jumped into the sea, rushing towards the beachhead. The first wave of survivors was advancing towards the second line of defense; the beach was growing larger and larger, with more and more corpses.

"Eight thousand," he muttered. "That's probably going to kill eight thousand people."

Lin Zhongfu returned and stood beside him without saying a word.

The two of them stood there, looking at the hellish landscape in the distance.