World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

By the time Kimura reached the top of the mountain, most of the British troops had already fled.

The trenches were littered with guns, ammunition, backpacks, and several wounded soldiers who hadn't managed to escape. They huddled in a corner, hands raised, shouting something. Kimura couldn't understand them, but he knew it was a plea for mercy.

The Japanese soldiers next to him rushed forward and stabbed the wounded soldiers with their bayonets.

Kimura did not move.

He stood there, watching those men being killed one by one. Screams, pleas for mercy, and the slurring sound of bayonets piercing flesh mingled together. Blood splattered on the trench walls, on the faces of those men, and on his uniform.

A wounded soldier crawled to his feet, grabbed his trouser leg, and shouted something in English. Kimura looked down at the man—an Indian soldier, very young, looking no more than twenty. He had been shot in the abdomen, his intestines spilling out and dragging on the ground. His eyes were filled with fear, despair, and a desperate will to survive.

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

The man was still shouting, tears streaming down his face.

Kimura's hands were shaking.

An old soldier walked over and stabbed the man in the back. The man screamed, fell to the ground, twitched twice, and then lay still.

The veteran looked at Kimura: "What are you standing there for? There are still survivors!"

Kimura remained silent.

He looked at the corpse, at the still-open eyes, at the blood that had spilled all over the ground.

He killed someone again.

Although he didn't stab the man, he knew that the man died because of him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

When I opened my eyes, the trench was silent. Only corpses, only blood, only those living people standing and panting remained.

Cheers erupted in the distance—other troops were charging up.

When the base was established, it was secured.

In the temporary command post outside Yingjiawu City, Xiaoyuan Chuan sat on a rock with casualty statistics spread out in front of him.

The 7th Division attacked Dai Chi, suffering over 3,000 casualties. The 8th Division attacked Tang Chi, suffering over 8,000 casualties. The two divisions joined forces to attack Ying Jia Wu, suffering over 10,000 casualties.

In total, more than 20,000 people are gone.

He looked at it three times, then folded up the statistics and put it in his pocket.

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu stood beside him, his face pale.

"General, the 7th and 8th Divisions are exhausted. The soldiers... their morale has collapsed."

Ohara Den remained silent.

He looked up at the still-burning city in the distance. Yingjiawu had been captured, but at the cost of ten thousand lives. Ten thousand Japanese soldiers, forever left on this unfamiliar land.

"What about the Ninth and Eleventh Divisions?" he asked.

Lin Zhongfu replied, "They're on their way. At least a week."

A week.

Ohara Den closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

A week later, once those two divisions arrive, we'll attack Naypyidaw again. More deaths, and thousands more, will follow.

He stood up and walked towards the temporary camp outside the city.

In the jungle outside Naypyidaw, Shintha crouched under a huge banyan tree, listening to the faint sound of cannons coming from afar.

Those were cannons from the Japanese. They were attacking the outer defenses of the British army, and the cannon fire continued from morning till night without stopping. Each explosion made the ground beneath their feet tremble slightly, as if some giant beast was turning over underground.

The deputy, Wu Naiwen, crawled over and said in a low voice, "Chief, the people of the Sakura Kingdom have sent a liaison officer. They want to see you."

He didn't answer immediately. He looked at the smoke and dust kicked up by the artillery fire in the distance and remained silent for a long time.

He was from Japan. He had heard of their atrocities in Malaya, of the eight thousand who died on the shores of Yangon, of their reckless fighting. Now they had reached Naypyidaw and needed help.

"Let him come over."

A few minutes later, a Japanese officer in a khaki uniform approached. The officer was young, but his face bore an expression he knew all too well—the kind of expression one would have only seen blood and killed.

He said in broken Burmese, "Mr. Sintha, our army commander, Lieutenant General Ohara Den, wishes to see you. He has important matters to discuss."

He looked at him and nodded.

That evening, Shinta was taken to a secluded place—not the Japanese camp, but a valley. There was a jeep parked there, and several men in plainclothes stood beside it. When Shinta approached, one of them came to greet him.

"Mr. Xin, please get in the car. Let's talk on the Zhenyuan."

The man spoke Burmese fluently. But Xin noticed his accent—he wasn't Burmese.

"Who are you?"

The man smiled and said, "My surname is Zhou, I am Rear Admiral Lanfang, Zhou Zhenguo."

He was stunned.

He didn't expect the people from Lanfang to come in person.

The jeep traveled through the night, bumping along for over two hours, finally stopping on a secluded beach. A small boat was already waiting on the shore. They boarded the boat and headed towards the enormous warship in the sea.

Zhenyuan.

He looked up at the colossal ship, a feeling he couldn't quite describe welling up inside him. He had seen British warships in Burma, but compared to this one, they seemed like toys. This 45,000-ton steel behemoth, with its eight 380mm main guns, looked like eight eyes poised to pounce on its prey.

He was led onto the deck, through a series of cabin doors, and finally into a cabin.

The cabin wasn't large, but it was very tidy. A huge map of Myanmar hung on the wall, covered with dense symbols. Outside the porthole, the night was pitch black and the coastline was faintly visible.

Zhou Zhenguo invited him to sit down, and then sat opposite him. Several plates of snacks and two cups of tea were on the table, but neither of them touched them.

"Mr. Xinta," Zhou Zhenguo began, speaking fluent Burmese, "your independence movement has been going on for decades?"

He remained silent for a few seconds.

"The fighting started in my father's generation. When the British came, we resisted. Now that you've come, we're still resisting."

Zhou Zhenguo nodded.

"I know. You want independence, you want your own country." He paused. "Lanfang can help you."

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"What are the conditions?"

Zhou Zhenguo took a document out of the drawer and pushed it in front of Xin.

"Lanfang is providing your two divisions with weapons and equipment—Type 38 rifles, Type 91 light machine guns, and Type 92 heavy machine guns. Ammunition, clothing, and medicine will be plentiful."

He took the document and quickly glanced through it.

"The price is... Myanmar's mineral resources?"

Zhou Zhenguo nodded.

"Tin, tungsten, oil, and timber. After you become independent, Lanfang will have priority in mining them. Prices will be based on international market prices, and we won't take advantage of you."

He remained silent for a long time.

He looked at the document, at the densely packed clauses, and at the label "priority mining rights".

This is a trade. National resources are exchanged for weapons, and weapons are exchanged for independence.

But what does Myanmar have? Nothing but resources.

They talked for three hours.

He told him about the history of the Burmese independence movement, their sacrifices over the years, and how the British levied exorbitant taxes in Burma. Zhou Zhenguo listened, occasionally asking a few questions, but mostly just listening in silence.

Zhou Zhenguo also spoke about Lanfang's predicament, why they were fighting this war, and the blood shed by the Japanese in Malaya and Burma. He said that Lanfang needed allies, and Burma needed independence; each side got what it needed.

In the early hours of the morning, Xin walked out of the cabin, clutching the signed agreement in his hand.

Zhou Zhenguo escorted him to the deck.

"The first batch of weapons will be delivered to you in ten days. The equipment for two divisions will be enough for you to raise an army."

He nodded.