World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The sun is rising, illuminating the entire sea. But beneath that brightness lies dark red water, countless corpses, and those who are still struggling, still charging, still dying.

"Lin Jun".

"exist."

"Do you think those who died knew they were going to die?"

Lin Zhongfu remained silent for a long time.

"I don't know, General."

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

"I don't know either," he said, "but I do know that they are dead, and we are alive. Those who are alive must remember them."

He paused, then lowered his voice: "Remember how they died, and why they died."

Lin Zhongfu opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he said nothing.

In the distance, the gunfire continued on the beach. Those who were still alive were still charging.

The second trench was taken down at nine o'clock in the morning.

Tanaka Jiro leaned against the trench wall, panting heavily. His left leg was still bleeding, the wound white from being soaked in seawater, and swollen to the size of his thigh. He tore open the first-aid kit, trying to bandage it, but his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't wrap the bandage properly.

The old soldier, his face covered in blood, squatted nearby. Blood was still seeping from the wound above his left eye, but he acted as if nothing was wrong, lighting a cigarette and smoking it. The cigarette was wet, making a hissing sound as he smoked, but he smoked slowly and carefully, inhaling each puff deeply into his lungs.

"Veteran," Tanaka Jiro began, his voice hoarse and unlike his own, "Should we...still fight?"

The veteran glanced at him and exhaled a puff of smoke.

"Attack. The third trench hasn't been taken yet."

Tanaka Jiro closed his eyes.

We still have to fight. We still have to charge. More people will die.

He opened his eyes and looked at the corpses in the trench. There were British soldiers, Indian soldiers, and Japanese soldiers. Some had just died, their blood still warm; others had been dead for a while, their bodies already stiffening. The blood had soaked the soil at the bottom of the trench into a thin mud, sticky and mushy underfoot, each step feeling like walking through a swamp.

A young soldier crawled past him, dragging a severed leg. The leg was gone below the knee, just a bloody, mangled stump. He crawled slowly, screaming with each step, leaving a long trail of blood behind him.

Nobody cared about him. Nobody had the capacity to care about him.

Tanaka Jiro watched the person crawl away without saying a word. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak, but that he couldn't bring himself to.

The old soldier stood up and stubbed out his cigarette against the trench wall.

"Let's go. It's time to get going."

Tanaka Jiro struggled to his feet. The wound on his leg throbbed with pain, making him grimace. But he gritted his teeth and followed the old soldier forward.

At the end of the trench, in the direction of the third trench, gunfire was still ringing out.

By noon, the beachhead had been completely captured.

Ohara Den stepped off the landing craft and onto the beach. The sand was soft beneath his feet, and something he didn't know was pressing against the soles of his feet. He didn't look down, but he knew what it was.

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu followed behind, his face pale.

The beach was littered with corpses. Some were submerged in the sea, tossed about by the waves; some lay face down on the sand, their faces buried in the sand; some were curled up in a ball, like sleeping children. Seagulls circled overhead, emitting piercing cries, and occasionally swooped down to peck at the still-erect corpses.

Ohara Den walked past the corpses, step by step, very slowly.

He saw a young soldier from the Sakura Kingdom lying face down on the beach, his face turned to one side. The face was young, looking no more than twenty years old, and his eyes were still open, staring at the sky. There was a bullet hole in his chest, the blood had dried up, leaving a dark brown mark.

He saw another soldier, curled up in a ball, clutching his stomach. His stomach had been blown open, and his intestines were spilling out, piled up on the sand, pecked and mangled by seagulls.

He saw three soldiers huddled together, as if they were still clutching each other's hands before they died. Their bodies were riddled with bullet holes, and blood had them stuck together, making it impossible to tell who was who.

Lin Zhongfu followed behind, his pace slowing down. His face grew paler and paler, and finally, unable to hold it in any longer, he rushed to the side and leaned against the rocks to vomit.

The story of Ohara has not stopped.

He continued walking forward, past the corpses, past the wounded who were still groaning, past the survivors kneeling on the ground in a daze.

He stopped at the end of the beach.

There stood a young soldier, covered in blood, his face grime, his eyes hollow like two dry wells. He stood there, staring at the corpses, motionless.

Ohara Den walked over and stood in front of him.

The soldier slowly turned his head and looked at him. Those eyes sent a shiver down Xiaoyuan's spine—the kind of eyes only someone who had lost everything could have.

"What's your name?"

"Tanaka...Tanaka Jiro."

Ohara Den nodded.

"Tanaka, do you know how many people died today?"

Tanaka Jiro looked at him without saying a word.

"Eight thousand." According to the Ohara legend, "Eight thousand soldiers from the Sakura Kingdom died on this beach."

He pointed to the corpses wrapped in white sheets, to the bodies still being washed by the waves, and to the severed limbs being carried away.

"Some of those people cried out that their mothers died, some cried out that His Majesty the Emperor died, and some died without crying out anything. They died, but we are still alive."

Tears streamed down Tanaka Jiro's face.

"General, I...I killed someone." His voice trembled. "I killed an Indian soldier. He knelt down and begged me, he kept begging me, but I still...I still stabbed him."

Ohara Den looked at him and remained silent for a long time.

Then he reached out and placed his hand on Tanaka Jiro's shoulder.

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

Tanaka Jiro shook his head.

"Because I've killed people too. A lot, a lot," Ohara said. "So many that I can't count them all, so many that I can see them with my eyes closed."

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

Tanaka Jiro's tears flowed even more fiercely.

Ohara Den patted him on the shoulder.

"Live. Only by living can we remember those who have died."

He turned and left, continuing to walk forward.

Behind him, Tanaka Jiro stood there, looking at the corpses, at the blood-stained sea, and at the crows circling in the sky.

Alive.

He remembered the words his brother had written in that letter—"Just being alive is enough."

But is living like this even considered living?

he does not know.

All he knew was that he was still standing there, still breathing, and still able to see this hellish place.

And those who died can never be seen again.

As evening fell, the sun was setting over Motama Bay.

The sea was dyed blood red, like an upside-down sky, like endless blood, like the eyes of eight thousand people who can never go home again.

Most of the bodies on the beach had been removed, leaving only patches of dark red stains as reminders of what had happened. Waves surged in, washing away the bloodstains, but they couldn't remove them. The blood had seeped into the sand, into the soil, into every corner of this land.

In the makeshift camp, the survivors sat in twos and threes. No one spoke, no one moved, they just sat there like clay statues.