World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Ten days later, the general offensive began at the gates of Naypyidaw.

Kenichi Kimura lay prone on the attack launch position, gripping his rifle tightly.

His leg still ached; the wound from the battle of Ingawu hadn't fully healed. But he had to go. The Ninth Division was coming, and the survivors of the Seventh Division had to go too. General Ohara said this was the last battle; if they took Naypyidaw, Burma would be theirs.

Several unfamiliar faces lay nearby—new recruits of the 9th Division, fresh from home, their faces still bearing the naivety of someone who had never been on the battlefield. They looked around curiously, whispering amongst themselves, completely unaware of what awaited them ahead.

A young recruit leaned over and asked in a low voice, "Old soldier, are you scared if a fight breaks out?"

Kimura looked at him and remained silent for a second.

"I was scared," he said, "but once the fight started, I forgot I was scared."

The recruit was stunned for a moment, and wanted to ask something else, but the whistle blew.

"Rush!"

Kimura got up and ran forward with the crowd.

This time, he wasn't alone. Beside him were men in khaki civilian clothes—the Burmese independence army, carrying the gun Lan Fang had just given them, charging behind the Japanese soldiers. Their movements weren't as practiced as the Japanese soldiers', but their eyes held a light Kimura recognized—the light of hatred.

Ahead lay the British positions, with three layers of trenches and a dense array of machine gun emplacements. The British had spent two months building Naypyidaw, transforming it into a massive fortress.

The machine gun fired.

Bullets swept through like a torrential rain. Soldiers around him fell in droves, their screams, shouts, and explosions mingling together. Kimura lay on the ground, his face pressed against the dirt, listening to the bullets whizzing overhead. Dirt splashed into his mouth, tasting both fishy and bitter.

"Get up! Charge!"

Someone kicked him. He looked up and saw an officer with a blood-stained face yelling at him. The officer's left eye was gone, leaving only a bloody hole, but he was still yelling.

Kimura got up and continued rinsing.

Thirty meters, twenty meters, ten meters—

He jumped into the trench.

The trenches were teeming with people—British soldiers, Japanese soldiers, and Burmese soldiers, all mixed together, fighting desperately with bayonets, rifle butts, fists, and teeth. Blood splattered on their faces and in their eyes, obscuring everything; all they knew was to stab, stab, stab.

A British soldier lunged at him. Kimura raised his rifle, bayonet plunged into the man's stomach. The man screamed, fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. Kimura pulled out the bayonet, stabbed him again, and again, and again—

By the time they came to their senses, the man's face was already mangled.

Kimura leaned against the trench wall, panting heavily.

He killed another one. I wonder how many that is.

Angdan crouched in the trench, his hands trembling.

Ten minutes ago, he was practicing bayonet fighting with a wooden gun in a training camp of the Burmese Independence Army. Ten minutes later, he was killing people with a real gun in this trench filled with dead bodies, blood, and screams.

He had just killed a British soldier. The man was white, blond, blue-eyed, and looked only a few years older than him. As he charged, Angdan instinctively raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The man fell before him, a bloody hole in his chest, his eyes still open, staring at him.

Angdan felt nauseous, but couldn't vomit.

"What are you standing there for? Move forward!" A veteran from Japan kicked him.

Angdan got up and ran after him.

At the end of the trench, a group of British soldiers were surrendering. They were kneeling on the ground with their hands raised, shouting something. Angdan couldn't understand them, but he knew it was a plea for mercy.

The Japanese soldiers rushed forward and stabbed those who surrendered with their bayonets.

Angdan stood there, stunned, watching as those people fell one after another.

"What...what are you doing?!" he shouted in Japanese. "They've surrendered!"

A Japanese officer turned to look at him, his eyes as cold as a river in winter.

"Surrender? There is no surrender on the battlefield. There is only living and dying."

Angdan opened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.

He looked down at the corpses at his feet—British soldiers, Japanese soldiers, and Burmese soldiers. The blood had soaked the soil at the bottom of the trench into a thin, sticky mud.

He suddenly didn't know what he was doing.

For independence? For freedom? For Burma?

Or was it for murder?

It was already afternoon when the second trench was captured.

Kimura leaned against a pile of sandbags, panting heavily. His left arm was cut by shrapnel, and blood streamed down his arm, but he didn't bother with bandaging it. He just wanted to breathe, just wanted to slow down his wildly beating heart.

The officer who had lost his left eye was squatting nearby. He was smoking, the cigarette trembling violently in his hand, but he was smoking slowly and forcefully.

"Veteran," Kimura began, his voice hoarse, "should we continue fighting?"

The officer glanced at him.

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

Kimura closed his eyes.

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

In the distance came the shouts of the Burmese Independence Army—they were shouting something in Burmese. Kimura couldn't understand it, but he knew it was the order to charge.

He opened his eyes and struggled to stand up.

"Walk."

When Angdan followed the Japanese soldiers into the third trench, he no longer cared about anything.

All he knew was to run, to fire, and to pull the trigger whenever he saw someone in a British uniform. His mind was blank; only instinct remained.

A British soldier rushed out from around the corner, pointing his gun at him. Angdan instinctively pulled the trigger—it jammed.

The British soldier's gun was already pointed at his face.

At the critical moment, a veteran from Japan rushed over and plunged a knife into the back of the British soldier. The man screamed and collapsed in front of Angdan.

The veteran looked at Angdan, cursed something, and then continued charging forward.

Angdan paused for a second, then changed his magazine and continued to follow.

He didn't know the old soldier's name, nor why he had saved him. But he knew that if it weren't for that man, he would already be a corpse.

At the end of the trench, a British officer stood there, pistol raised, firing at the charging soldiers. He was a sharpshooter, taking down three Japanese soldiers with each shot.

Angdan raised his gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The officer fell to the ground.

Angdan rushed over and stood in front of him. The officer was still alive, with a gaping hole in his chest, blood gushing out. He looked at Angdan, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but the blood gushed out and blocked his throat.

he died.

Angdan stood there, looking at the corpse.

He has blond hair, blue eyes, and looks very young. Perhaps, like him, he also has parents waiting at home.

he does not know.

All he knew was that he had killed another person.

The street fighting in Naypyidaw entered its third day.

Kimura leaned against the broken wall, chewing on a piece of compressed biscuit. The biscuit was as hard as a rock, hurting his teeth, but he didn't care. For three days, he had barely eaten or slept, surviving entirely on this one bite.

Several new recruits from the 9th Division were squatting nearby, talking quietly.

"I heard you can go back to your country after the fight?"

"Probably. They've already rested and prepared in Malaya."

"I'm still alive... I can't believe I'm still alive..."

Kimura didn't say anything and continued chewing the biscuit.

He survived Yangon, he survived Dangki, he survived Ingawu, he survived Naypyidaw. But his brother, Tanaka Ichiro, the brother who wrote to him and told him "just being alive is enough," died in the ruins of Kuala Lumpur.

He didn't know how much longer he had to live.

Maybe the next shell, maybe the next bullet, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after.

But at least for now, he's still alive. He can still eat cookies, he can still breathe, and he can still think about his brother.