World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

In the jungles of the Ayeyarwady Region, Yamamoto Ichiro, carrying a rifle, slowly followed behind the column.

This is the third day of the offensive.

The rainforest was sweltering and humid, like a sauna. Sweat streamed down my face, stinging my eyes. Mosquitoes buzzed around me, leaving me covered in bites. The ground was covered in rotting leaves, soft and yielding underfoot, and occasionally I'd step on a snake, giving me a fright.

"How much further?" someone in front asked.

The scout turned around: "After we cross this hill, we'll reach the first village."

Yamamoto Ichiro wiped the sweat from his face and continued walking forward.

He was an ordinary soldier in the 9th Division, twenty-one years old, from a small fishing village in Kyushu. Three months ago, he was fishing at sea, but now he was fighting in the jungles of Myanmar. Sometimes he felt like he was dreaming, but the smell of sweat on his body, the bites of mosquitoes, and the blisters on the soles of his feet reminded him that it was real.

An old soldier walked by, cursing, "This godforsaken place is hotter than hell. What were the British thinking, building a colony in a place like this?"

Another soldier chimed in, "They don't have to fight themselves; the Indian soldiers are the ones who bear the brunt."

"That's true. The Indian soldiers are also in a terrible situation. They fought for the British and died without even knowing who they died for."

Yamamoto Ichiro didn't participate in their conversation. He just wanted to get out of this jungle as soon as possible, find that village quickly, complete the mission quickly, and—get back alive.

Two hours later, the scout ran back and reported, "There's a village ahead!"

The regimental commander raised his binoculars and looked for a moment, then waved his hand. The two battalions spread out and surrounded the village.

The village was small, with dozens of bamboo houses scattered among the coconut palms. Yamamoto Ichiro, hunched over, followed the group forward. His gun was pointed ahead, his finger on the trigger, his palms sweaty. His heart was pounding, thumping as if it would jump out of his throat.

Three hundred meters. Two hundred meters. One hundred meters—

The village remained quiet.

There were no gunshots, no people, not even chickens or dogs.

The vanguard rushed into the village. A few minutes later, someone shouted, "Nobody's here! They've all run away!"

Yamamoto Ichiro breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the bamboo house, panting heavily.

An old soldier came over and handed him a coconut: "Have some water."

Yamamoto Ichiro took the coconut, cut a hole in it with his bayonet, and tilted his head back to drink. The coconut juice was sweet and refreshing, flowing down his throat and quenching his thirst better than anything else. He finished it in one gulp and wiped his mouth.

"The British never wanted to defend this place," the veteran said, lighting a cigarette. "They all ran away, leaving us with an empty shell."

Yamamoto Ichiro looked around at the empty bamboo houses and asked, "So, are we just going to keep chasing like this?"

"Chase them. Chase them to the coast, chase them to India. Chase them until there are no more British left." The old soldier took a drag of his cigarette. "That's war. The fast runners live, the slow runners die."

The regimental commander convened a meeting of officers in the center of the village. Yamamoto Ichiro could hear them talking in the distance, saying that their next target was a town fifty kilometers away, which they expected to reach the town by tomorrow afternoon.

He leaned back against the bamboo house and closed his eyes.

Fifty kilometers. Another day's walk.

But at least there was no war, no deaths, and no horrific gunfire and screams.

A young soldier walked over and sat down next to him. The soldier looked younger than him, with a youthful face that hadn't quite faded.

"Veteran, have you ever fought in a war?"

Yamamoto Ichiro looked at him and remained silent for a second.

"I've fought with them."

Have you ever killed anyone?

Yamamoto Ichiro did not answer.

The young soldier waited a while, and seeing that he didn't speak, asked another question: "Is war... scary?"

Yamamoto Ichiro thought for a moment.

"It's scary," he said, "but you don't feel it while you're fighting. It's scary after the fight is over."

The young soldier was taken aback: "Why?"

"Because it will remind you of those who were killed." Yamamoto Ichiro closed his eyes. "They will appear in your dreams and ask you why you killed them."

The young soldier opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he said nothing.

Yamamoto Ichiro did not open his eyes and continued to lean against the bamboo house.

Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the coconut trees, casting dappled shadows on his face.

Ten days later, the Ninth Division swept through the Ayeyarwady Region.

More than 300 were killed and more than 500 were wounded. The entire territory was occupied.

That evening, Yamamoto Ichiro sat in a British manor, eating canned food he had captured, listening to the distant gunfire—the sound of reinforcements mopping up the remaining enemy. He watched the prisoners being taken away, the weapons being confiscated, and the soldiers as exhausted as he was.

More than 300 people were killed in action.

More than three hundred names, more than three hundred families, more than three hundred people who will never be able to go home again.

He remembered the young soldier who had asked him, "Is war scary?" The boy was killed in a small skirmish on the third day; a stray bullet struck him in the forehead, and he died instantly. Yamamoto Ichiro watched him fall, watched the light in his eyes slowly fade away.

The boy's name was Sato, and he was only nineteen years old.

Yamamoto Ichiro took a bite of the beef in the can, chewing very slowly.

Those who are alive must continue to eat. Those who are dead no longer need to eat.

Outside of Paburn, there is a small hill.

The mountain wasn't high, but its slope was steep. All the trees had been cut down, leaving a bare, barren slope. From the summit, trenches and machine gun emplacements could be seen, their dark muzzles pointing down the mountain.

Lieutenant Colonel Ueda, commander of the 11th Division, looked at the mountain through his binoculars.

He had been watching for ten minutes.

The chief of staff stood beside him, pointing to the fortifications on the mountain, and said, "Intelligence says the garrison is a regiment, about 1,500 men, a mixed British and Indian force. The fortifications have been under construction for half a month and are very sturdy."

Ueda put down his binoculars.

"A regiment guarding this wretched hilltop. The British are trying to buy time."

He turned to face the three captains behind him.

"The first battalion will launch a feint attack from the front to draw enemy fire. The second battalion will flank from the left, and the third battalion from the right. Mortars will fire for the first ten minutes to suppress the fire on the hilltop."

The three battalion commanders simultaneously stood at attention: "Yes, sir!"

Twenty minutes later, the mortars began firing.

Six 81mm mortars fired simultaneously, shells whistling towards the mountaintop, exploding in plumes of smoke on the hillside. Soil, gravel, and wood fragments were hurled into the air and then fell back down.

"Rush!"

The soldiers of the first battalion leaped out from behind their bunkers and charged up the hillside.

The slope was steep; every few steps they took, they slipped and fell, panting heavily. The soldiers, rifles in hand, bent over, and climbed step by step. Sweat stung their eyes, obscuring their vision; they knew only upward, upward, upward—

The machine gun on the mountaintop opened fire.

Not just one shot, but more than a dozen rang out simultaneously. Bullets rained down like a storm, and the soldiers at the forefront fell in droves, tumbling down the hillside. Screams, cries of alarm, and curses mingled together.