World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Colonel Harrison leaned against the window, looking out at the street through a gap in the curtains.

His battalion had less than two hundred men left. In three days of street fighting, more than a thousand men had been killed, wounded, or fled. The remaining two hundred men were filled with fear. They huddled in the ruins, gripping their guns, staring at every corner of the street, their whole bodies trembling.

The way the Japanese soldiers advanced sent chills down his spine. They didn't dodge, they didn't retreat, they just charged straight at the bullets. Ten died, then twenty came. Twenty died, then forty came. It was as if human life wasn't life, but merely a expendable commodity.

The Burmese had gone mad. Locals in khaki civilian clothes, armed with Japanese guns, charged after them. They knew the terrain well, where to hide and where to find detours. Many soldiers weren't killed by the Japanese, but stabbed in the back by the Burmese.

"Sir," a corporal crawled over, his voice trembling, "we're surrounded. There are people all around us."

Harrison did not speak.

He looked out the window at the street littered with corpses—British soldiers, Indian soldiers, Japanese soldiers, and Burmese soldiers. Blood stained the street a dark red, shimmering in the sunlight.

"Sir," the corporal said again, "we...we surrender."

Harrison remained silent for a long time.

Then he nodded.

"surrender."

The corporal was stunned: "Sir, you..."

"Surrender," Harrison repeated. "Go tell them we surrender. Tell them to stop shooting."

The corporal crawled out, shouting something in English. The gunfire gradually subsided.

A few minutes later, a group of Japanese soldiers surrounded them. They held guns, their bayonets gleaming in the sunlight, their faces showing exhaustion and madness.

Harrison slowly walked out of the ruins and raised his hands.

A Japanese officer approached and asked in broken English, "Are you the commander?"

Harrison nodded.

"I request a meeting with your army's supreme commander."

The officer looked at him and suddenly smiled. That smile sent a chill down Harrison's spine.

"We will meet. But not now."

He turned to the side and said something to the soldiers behind him. Several soldiers rushed up, pinned Harrison to the ground, and tied his hands behind his back with rope.

Harrison struggled to lift his head: "You...you can't do this! I'm an officer! According to the Geneva Convention..."

The officer squatted down and looked at him.

"General," he said, pointing to the surrounding ruins, the scattered corpses, the still-smoking buildings, "look at this. Do you think there's any convention left?"

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

The officer stood up, turned, and left.

Behind them, Japanese soldiers began searching the ruins, dragging out the surviving British soldiers one by one. Some resisted and were stabbed to death on the spot. Others knelt and begged for mercy, only to be kicked to the ground, tied up, and thrown aside.

Harrison knelt on the ground, watching all of this.

He saw the young corporal being dragged out and tied up beside him. The boy was covered in blood, but he was still smiling—a smile as if he had finally been freed.

In the distance, from the direction of Naypyidaw's central square, cheers erupted. Those were the cheers of the people of Japan, the sound of them conquering the city.

In the central square of Naypyidaw, British soldiers lined up in long queues, laid down their weapons, and raised their hands.

Xiao Yuanchuan stood on a jeep, watching the people walk past. There were British, Indians, Burmese, people of all skin colors and ages. Their faces showed fear, exhaustion, numbness, and relief.

A British colonel was brought before him. The man was wearing a crisp uniform, covered in dust, but he still tried to stand upright. He looked up at Ohara Den.

"I demand that my officers be given the treatment they deserve in accordance with the Geneva Convention."

Ohara Den looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.

"What's your name?"

"Harrison. Colonel Harrison, Chief of Staff of the 3rd Division of the British Indian Army."

Ohara Den nodded.

"Colonel Harrison, your soldiers will receive food and water. The wounded will be treated. Officers will be held in solitary confinement." He paused. "That's all I can offer."

Harrison looked at him and remained silent for a few seconds.

"Thanks."

He was taken away.

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu walked over and handed over a statistic.

"General, approximately 12,000 British troops have surrendered. Among them are over 400 officers. There are also... about 5,000 Indian and Burmese soldiers."

Ohara Den glanced at it and folded up the statistics.

"What should we do with those Indian and Burmese soldiers?"

Lin Zhongfu hesitated for a moment: "According to convention... prisoners are prisoners. But we'll follow his request and hand over the Burmese soldiers to him."

Ohara Den remained silent for a few seconds.

"Give it to him."

Lin Zhongfu was taken aback: "General, those Burmese soldiers are British soldiers. According to international law..."

"International law?" Ohara looked at him. "Lin-kun, do you think we're still abiding by international law?"

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

Ohara Den jumped off the plane and walked towards the edge of the square.

There, members of the Burmese Independence Army were dragging Burmese soldiers from the ranks of prisoners. The soldiers cried out, begged for mercy, and shouted something in Burmese. But no one paid them any attention. They were tied together with ropes and led out of the city like livestock.

A young Burmese soldier struggled, shouting in English, "I was forced! The British conscripted me! I don't want to fight!"

A Burmese independence army soldier walked up to him and punched him in the face. He fell to the ground, was dragged up, and continued walking.

Ohara Den watched the people being dragged away without saying a word.

This is war. The winners can judge the losers. The losers can only wait to die.

In the center of the square, a group of Japanese soldiers were raising the Rising Sun Flag. The flag fluttered in the wind, particularly dazzling in the afternoon sun.

Ohara Den stood at the edge of the square, looking at the flag.

Naypyidaw has been taken. Myanmar has been taken.

But what's the cost?

Fifty-three thousand men. Adding the forty-two thousand from Malaya, a total of ninety-five thousand Japanese soldiers remained forever on this unfamiliar land.

He turned around and walked towards the temporary command post.

Kenichi Kimura stood at the edge of the square, watching the Burmese prisoners being taken away.

His left arm was wrapped in thick bandages; the bleeding had stopped, but the pain persisted. Even more painful than the wound itself was the indescribable feeling in his heart.

A Burmese prisoner walked past him. The man was young, looked to be no more than twenty, and his face was streaked with tears. He was bound by ropes and staggered forward. As he passed Kimura, he suddenly turned his head and looked at Kimura.

Those eyes were filled with fear, despair, and something Kimura knew all too well.

Kimura looked away, unable to bear watching any longer.

The prisoner was dragged away.

A soldier from Japan walked over and offered Kimura a cigarette.

"Want to smoke?"

Kimura took the cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag. The smoke made him cough, but he didn't stop and took another drag.

"It's over," the soldier said. "The fighting in Burma is over."

Kimura nodded.

"I can go back to China now."

Kimura remained silent.

Go back to Japan? Can he even go back to Japan? Can Kenichi Kimura, who killed countless people and had countless nightmares, return to his hometown, see his parents, and live a normal life?

he does not know.

All he knows is that he is standing here now, alive.

In the distance, the Rising Sun Flag in the center of the square fluttered in the wind.

He stared at the flag and remained silent for a long time.

Then he turned and walked toward the wounded soldiers' camp.

His leg still hurt, but not as much anymore. Maybe it was because he had gotten used to it, or maybe it was because he had become numb.

He walked slowly, each step firm and deliberate.

Behind them, the prisoners were still being led away. Cries, pleas for mercy, and curses mingled together, growing ever more distant.

He didn't want to turn back.

I dare not look back.