World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Tanaka Jiro sat on a rock, gazing at the blood-red sea. His left leg was wrapped in thick bandages; the bleeding had stopped, but the pain remained. Even more painful than the wound itself was the indescribable ache in his heart.

A person walked over and sat down next to him.

It was the old soldier whose face was covered in blood. The wound above the old soldier's left eye had been bandaged, wrapped in a white bandage, which was particularly conspicuous in the twilight.

He handed Tanaka Jiro a rice ball.

"Eat up. It was just delivered."

Tanaka Jiro took the rice ball and took a bite. The rice was hard and had a burnt taste, but he chewed it slowly and carefully.

The old soldier lit a cigarette and looked at the sea.

"first?"

Tanaka Jiro paused for a moment, then nodded.

The veteran exhaled a puff of smoke.

"It's always like this the first time. You'll get used to it after a few more times."

Tanaka Jiro looked at him: "Veteran, how many people did you kill the first time?"

The veteran remained silent for a long time.

Then he said, "I forgot."

"Forgot?"

"I forgot." The old soldier took another drag of his cigarette. "I killed too many, I can't remember."

He turned to look at Tanaka Jiro, whose eyes gleamed in the twilight—tired, empty, yet with something indescribable about them.

"Kid, don't overthink it. If you overthink, you won't survive."

Tanaka Jiro did not speak.

He looked at the increasingly dark sea, at the still-smoking British fortifications, and at the corpses wrapped in white sheets in the distance, waiting to be transported away.

Eight thousand.

Eight thousand names, eight thousand families, eight thousand people who will never be able to go home again.

"Old soldier," he suddenly asked, "do you think we can still go home?"

The veteran looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.

Then he said, "I don't know."

He stood up and patted the dirt off his backside.

"But as long as there is life, there is hope."

he's gone.

Tanaka Jiro sat there alone, watching the night slowly descend.

In the distance, campfires began to burn in the camp. The flames flickered in the night, like countless struggling hands.

Those who were alive sat around the campfire in silence.

No one sang, no one spoke, they just sat there, waiting for the next dawn.

Waiting for the next charge, the next battle, the next wave of deaths.

Temporary command post outside Yangon Port.

Smoke swirled inside the tent, and the flames of the kerosene lamps flickered slightly in the sweltering afternoon heat. Four division commanders sat at either side of the long table: Lieutenant General Oshima, commander of the 9th Division; Lieutenant General Matsui, commander of the 11th Division; Lieutenant General Yamamuro, commander of the 7th Division; and Lieutenant General Hongo, commander of the 8th Division. Each face bore the marks of exhaustion, but their eyes shone with a light—the light of seeing victory in sight, and also the light of knowing that more deaths were yet to come.

Xiao Yuanchuan stood in front of the map, holding a long, thin bamboo pole. On the map, the outline of Burma was densely marked with red and blue pencil marks—red arrows indicated their direction of attack, blue circles represented British defensive positions, and black crosses marked reconnaissance outposts.

"You've all seen the terrain of Burma," Ohara said, his voice low but each word clear as nails driven into a board. "The British have about 80,000 to 100,000 troops here. Half of them are Indian divisions, which are of average combat strength. But Burma's terrain is complex, with dense jungles, and the British are familiar with it, so we have to be careful."

The bamboo pole marked three directions on the map.

"Ninth Division, southwest, Ayeyarwady Region." He looked at Lieutenant General Oshima. "That's a grain-producing area, and the British defenses are weak. Your mission is to take it quickly, within a week."

Lieutenant General Oshima nodded, but his brow furrowed slightly: "General, is the intelligence accurate? To take the entire province within a week?"

"The scouts report that the British have only deployed in the major towns; the countryside is completely undefended," Ohara said. "What you need to do is advance quickly and avoid unnecessary engagements. If you encounter resistance, bypass them if necessary; just seize the key points first. Wait for follow-up troops to mop up the enemy."

Oshima paused for a second, then stood at attention: "Understood."

The bamboo pole was moved northeast.

"Eleventh Division, northeast, towards Pabon." Ohara looked at Lieutenant General Matsui. "That area is close to the Thai border, so the garrison shouldn't be large. After taking it, guard the eastern flank to prevent the British from receiving reinforcements from the Thai direction."

Lieutenant General Matsui was a veteran in his fifties with a deep scar on his face, a mark left from over a decade ago in Cao County. He looked at the map, his finger pointing to the location of Paben.

"Paburn is a small town, but it's surrounded by mountains. The British might use the terrain to their advantage."

"So you have to be quick," Ohara said, "break in before they have time to build fortifications."

Matsui nodded: "Understood."

The bamboo pole finally landed in the northwest direction, following a red line.

"The 7th and 8th Divisions, follow me to the northwest. From Daizhi, Dangji, and Yingjiawu, the final target is Naypyidaw." Ohara Den looked at Lieutenant General Yamamuro and Lieutenant General Hongo. "This is the direction of the main British force; the tough battles are yet to come. You must be prepared."

Yamamuro and Hongo exchanged a glance but said nothing.

The tent was quiet for a few seconds.

Ohara Den put down the bamboo pole, placed his hands on the table, and looked at the four division commanders.

"The Burma campaign is expected to last two months. Casualties..." He paused, "...may not be less than in Malaya. Tell the soldiers that if they win this battle, they can rest and recuperate."

The four division commanders stood up simultaneously: "Yes, sir!"

The chair scraped against the ground with a harsh sound. They filed out, leaving only Ohara Den in the tent.

He stood in front of the map, staring at the red arrows, and remained silent for a long time.

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu walked in, carrying a cup of tea.

"General, you haven't eaten anything since this morning. Please have some tea."

Ohara Den took the teacup, but didn't drink it; he simply held it in his hand to warm his palm.

"Lin Jun, do you think they can complete the mission?"

Lin Zhongfu was taken aback: "General, you mean...?"

"The Ayeyarwady Region on Oshima should be fine. Matsui's region, Pabon, should also go smoothly. But Yamamuro and Hongo..." Ohara's gaze fell on the red line in the northwest, "Daizhi, Dangji, and Ingawu, that's a tough road. The British will hold out there to the death."

Lin Zhongfu remained silent for a few seconds.

"General, should we send the Ninth or Eleventh Division to provide support?"

Ohara Den shook his head.

"It's too late. By the time they take Irrawaddy and Pabon, it will take at least half a month to get there. Yamamuro and Hongo will have to carry it themselves."

He took a sip of tea; it was cold, but he didn't mind.

"Lin Jun, pass down the order: all divisions will depart at dawn tomorrow. Let the soldiers get a good night's sleep tonight."

Lin Zhongfu stood at attention: "Yes, sir!"

He turned to leave, but Ohara Den called him back.

"Also, have the logistics department prepare more stretchers and medicines. We'll need a lot of them coming up."

Lin Zhongfu looked at him, nodded, and turned to leave.

Once again, only Ohara Den was left in the tent.

He walked to the tent entrance, lifted the curtain, and looked at the soldiers bustling about outside. The setting sun was sinking into the sea, turning the entire camp golden red. Soldiers were coming and going, carrying supplies, checking equipment, some smoking, some writing letters, and some leaning against the tents in a daze.