World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Lie down!" someone shouted.

The soldiers lay prone on the hillside, their faces pressed against the mud, listening to the bullets whizzing overhead. Some were hit, screaming as they rolled down the slope. Others lay motionless, whether dead or too afraid to move, it was unclear.

Ueda held up his binoculars, watching the soldiers lying prone on the hillside.

"Order the mortars to continue suppressing the enemy."

The shells fell again. This time, one hit the machine gun emplacement on the hilltop directly. The machine gun fell silent.

"Rush!"

The soldiers got up and continued climbing.

Fifty meters. Thirty meters. Twenty meters—

The grenades were thrown up and exploded in the trenches. The soldiers leaped into the trenches and engaged the enemy in hand-to-hand combat with bayonets.

Ueda put down his binoculars and let out a long sigh.

"We got it."

Two hours later, the statistics arrived: 420 dead and over 300 wounded. An entire British regiment was wiped out.

Ueda stared at the numbers and remained silent for a long time.

Four hundred and twenty people. Adding the more than three hundred injured, more than seven hundred people are gone.

The chief of staff walked over and said softly, "General, when we were cleaning up the battlefield, we discovered that the British regiment actually only had about a thousand men, not a thousand and fifty."

Ueda looked up at him.

"Is the intelligence incorrect?"

The chief of staff nodded: "The scouts said they might have misjudged the situation during the previous reconnaissance. The actual strength is about a thousand men."

Ueda looked down at the statistics again.

One thousand against seven hundred. Even if all the British soldiers died, they still lost more than four hundred.

"One regiment, for more than four hundred lives," he murmured. "This debt can never be settled."

The chief of staff did not speak.

Ueda stood up and walked out of the temporary command post.

On the hillside, soldiers were carrying corpses. One by one, wrapped in white cloth, they were being carried down the mountain. Some of the bodies were intact, some were mutilated, and some were only half-buried. Bloodstains were scattered along the way, particularly glaring in the sunlight.

Outside the castle, Kenichi Kimura lay on the ground, his face pressed against the mud.

The 7th Division has been attacking for three days.

For three days, the British positions remained unmoved. The city was like a crouching beast, its mouth agape, waiting for them to crawl in. Soldiers charged forward, falling in droves, their corpses piling up in the fields outside the city. There was no time to collect them; they simply lay there, rotting under the scorching sun, emitting a foul stench.

Kenichi Kimura lay prone in a shell crater, surrounded by several soldiers from his company. No one spoke; they just lay there, waiting for the order to charge again.

The sound of artillery fire could be heard in the distance—the division's artillery was bombarding the British positions. Shells landed in the city, exploding into plumes of smoke. But the British fortifications were too strong, and the shelling had little effect.

"It's our turn again," said a veteran nearby, his voice as calm as if he were remarking on the nice weather.

Kimura didn't speak. His mouth was so dry he couldn't open it, and his tongue felt like sandpaper. The kettle had been empty for three days. He tried to swallow, but nothing came out.

The whistle blew.

"Rush!"

Kimura got up and ran forward with the crowd.

He was stepping on something soft and yielding—corpses, some from yesterday, some from the day before. He dared not look down, his eyes fixed on the hill ahead, and ran as fast as he could. His legs felt like lead, each step requiring all his strength.

The machine gun fired.

Soldiers around him fell one after another. Kimura heard bullets whizzing past his ears, heard screams, heard someone calling "Mom." But he didn't stop, he couldn't stop, stopping meant death.

There was a dirt slope ahead. He lunged forward and rolled behind it.

He was panting heavily.

A soldier rolled over beside him, his chest a bloody mess, blood still gushing out. He opened his mouth, trying to shout something, but could only make hoarse sounds. He looked at Kimura, his eyes filled with terror.

Kimura looked at him, unable to do anything.

The soldier twitched a few times and then stopped moving.

Kimura closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he opened his eyes, peered out from behind the earthen mound, and continued running forward.

Twenty meters, ten meters, five meters—

He jumped into the British trenches.

The trenches were filled with dead bodies. British soldiers and Japanese soldiers were all mixed together, indistinguishable from one another. Blood had soaked the mud at the bottom of the trenches into a dark red color, making it sticky and treacherous, each step feeling like walking through a swamp.

A British soldier rushed out from around the corner, brandishing his bayonet and lunging at him. Kimura instinctively raised his rifle, parried the blow, and then stabbed the man in the stomach with his bayonet.

The soldier screamed and knelt on the ground, clutching his stomach with both hands, blood gushing from between his fingers. He looked at Kimura, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but blood gushed out and blocked his throat.

he died.

Kimura leaned against the trench wall, panting heavily.

He killed someone again.

I don't know how many times this is.

Lieutenant Raj lay prone in the fortifications on the mountaintop, a revolver in his hand.

His company had 37 men left.

After three days of fighting, more than a hundred brothers were either dead or had fled. The remaining thirty-seven men were filled with fear. They huddled in the trenches, gripping their guns, staring at the Japanese soldiers still charging down the mountain, their bodies trembling.

"Lieutenant," a corporal crawled over, his voice trembling, "the Japanese are coming again. They...they don't even dodge the bullets, they just charge. Our men...they can't hold on much longer."

Raj didn't say anything.

He peered down the mountain at the Japanese soldiers charging forward. They trampled over the corpses of their comrades, trudging through pools of blood, their eyes bloodshot as they charged upwards. Their madness reminded him of the Asuras in Hindu mythology, those demons who feared no death and knew only slaughter.

"Fire!" he roared.

The machine guns roared again. Japanese soldiers fell in droves, but those behind kept charging. Closer and closer—

Raji suddenly didn't want to fight anymore.

He looked at the Indian soldiers around him—some from Punjab, some from Mumbai, some from Calcutta. They had left their homes to come to this foreign country to serve the Queen of England. But where was the Queen? Where were the officers who had sent them?

They were all in the rear, in a safe place. Only Indian soldiers were taking bullets for them.

"Lieutenant," the corporal said again, "we...we should retreat."

Raj looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.

Then he nodded.

"withdraw."

The corporal was stunned: "Lieutenant, you...?"

"Withdraw!" Raj raised his voice. "Let the brothers retreat! We're stopping the fighting!"

The news spread, and commotion broke out in the trenches. Indian soldiers threw down their guns and turned to run. British officers fired from behind, killing two deserters, but it was no use. More men surged forward, knocking the British officer down and trampling him underfoot.

Raj ran after him.

He ran across the second trench, across the third trench, past the unopened ammunition boxes. Behind him, the shouts of the Japanese soldiers grew closer and closer—

"Long live!"