World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

At 8 p.m., in the captain's cabin of the Zhenyuan, Xiaoyuan Chuan and Zhou Zhenguo sat facing each other.

A few simple dishes and a bottle of sake were laid out on the table. But no one touched their chopsticks.

Outside the porthole, the night was pitch black and the coastline was faintly visible. In the distance, in the direction of Naypyidaw, firelight flickered—the marks left by war, the burning city, and the corpses that had not yet been buried.

"We've taken Naypyidaw," Ohara said, his voice hoarse. "We've taken Myanmar."

Zhou Zhenguo nodded.

How many casualties?

Ohara Den remained silent for a few seconds.

"Fifty-three thousand. Add the forty-two thousand from Malaya, and that makes ninety-five thousand."

Zhou Zhenguo remained silent.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the pitch-black night.

"General Xiaoyuan, Lanfang will remember the blood you shed," he said without turning back. "The families of the fallen soldiers will receive compensation. The surviving soldiers will be given time to recuperate."

Ohara Den watched his retreating figure.

"General Zhou, I have a question."

Zhou Zhenguo turned around.

"Please speak."

"What do you think he'll do with those Burmese prisoners?"

Zhou Zhenguo remained silent for a few seconds.

"I don't know," he said. "That's a matter for the Burmese."

Ohara Den nodded.

Outside the window, in the direction of Naypyidaw, the firelight was still flickering.

"General Zhou, those surviving soldiers need rest," he said. "They are exhausted. Nearly 100,000 have died."

Zhou Zhenguo looked at him.

"I know. Two months. You have two months to rest and recuperate."

Ohara Den nodded.

"Thanks."

The two stood side by side, looking at the distant firelight.

After a long silence, Xiao Yuanchuan suddenly asked, "General Zhou, how long do you think this battle will last?"

Zhou Zhenguo thought for a moment.

"I don't know. Maybe a year, maybe two years, maybe longer."

"How many people are still in India?"

"Three hundred thousand. Adding the remnants withdrawn from Burma, it might be three hundred and fifty thousand."

Ohara Den remained silent.

350,000 people. How many more people have to die before the war is over?

Zhou Zhenguo seemed to understand what he was thinking.

"General Ohara, that's how war is," he said. "There's no end to it. There's only the day when you can no longer fight."

Ohara Den nodded.

"Yes. There will only be a day when I can no longer fight."

He turned and walked towards the door.

In a small village on the banks of the Irrawaddy River, Aung Than leaned against a bamboo house, watching the Burmese prisoners being interrogated.

The sun was scorching, making people dizzy. There was no wind on the river; the water seemed frozen, completely still. An indescribable stench permeated the air—the smell of blood, the stench of decay, the odor emanating from corpses that hadn't yet been buried.

The prisoners were tied together with ropes and led like livestock to the banyan tree in the center of the village. There was a table there with a thick stack of lists on it. Xin sat behind the table, a pencil in his hand, watching the people being brought in.

One by one, Burmese prisoners were brought before him, giving their names, unit numbers, and what they had done in the British army.

Angdan leaned against the bamboo house, watching those people.

Some were very young, looking even younger than him, their faces still bearing the innocence of childhood. Others were very old, their hair all white, their backs hunched, their steps unsteady. Some wore old British uniforms, some wore traditional Burmese clothing, and some were shirtless, their bodies covered in wounds.

A young man was brought before him.

"name?"

"Mao...Mao Ding."

"Which unit?"

"The 3rd Battalion of the 7th Indian Division."

"Have you ever killed any Burmese people?"

Maoding's face turned deathly pale. He opened his mouth, making gurgling sounds in his throat, before finally managing to squeeze out, "It was...it was the British who ordered it...I...I just..."

He waved his hand dismissively.

Two soldiers dragged Mawding to the riverbank and pinned him to the ground. One of the soldiers raised his sword and slashed down.

The blood splattered in the river, but was quickly washed away.

Angdan closed his eyes.

He heard the muffled thud, the man's final scream, and the gasps and sobs of the surrounding crowd. But he didn't open his eyes.

He didn't want to watch.

A Burmese independence army soldier walked over and sat down next to him. The man's name was Than Htwe; he had come from the training camp with him and fought alongside him in the street fighting in Naypyidaw.

"What's wrong?" Dantai asked. "Can't stand it anymore?"

Angdan opened his eyes and looked at the people being executed on the riverbank.

"They..." he began, his voice slightly hoarse, "They are also Burmese."

Dante remained silent for a few seconds.

"They worked for the British," he said. "They killed our people."

Angdan did not speak.

He thought of the street fighting in Naypyidaw, of the British soldier he had killed, and of the surrendered soldiers who had been stabbed to death with bayonets. At that moment, he felt disgusted, terrified, and felt like he had become a monster.

But now, looking at these executed "traitors," he felt nothing.

Just watching. Like watching a movie from afar.

Another prisoner was brought before him.

He was a middle-aged man with a weathered face and eyes full of fear. He was forced to kneel on the ground, his whole body trembling.

"name?"

"Wu... Wu Bo".

"Which unit?"

"The 8th Burma Rifle Battalion... I'm a clerk, not a combat soldier. I've never killed anyone..."

He looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.

"How many years did you serve in the British Army?"

Wu Bo's voice trembled: "Three...three years."

"Three years," he repeated. "In those three years, you watched the British bully the Burmese, watched them collect taxes, arrest people, and kill people, and you did nothing?"

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

He waved his hand dismissively.

Wu Bo was dragged to the riverbank. He struggled and shouted something in Burmese—Aung Dan heard him shouting, "I have a wife and children," "I have an elderly mother at home," "Spare me." But the two soldiers did not stop and pressed him to the ground.

The knife rises and the knife falls.

Another head rolled into the river.

Angdan shifted his gaze to the distant, rolling mountains. They were lush and green, shimmering in the sunlight. If it weren't for the carnage, this would be a beautiful place.

Dante lit a cigarette and took a puff.

"Angdan, do you know why he wanted to kill these people?"

Angdan did not answer.

"Because if we don't kill them, there will be others who will work for the British in the future," Dante said. "Independence is bought with blood."

Angdan turned to look at him.

"Does that people's blood count too?"

Dante remained silent.

At the riverbank, another prisoner was led away.

This time it was a young man, who looked only seventeen or eighteen years old, as thin as a bamboo pole. When he was brought before Xin, his legs were already weak, and he had to be supported by two soldiers to keep from collapsing.

"name?"

"Min...Min Deng."

"Which unit?"

"Logistics...porter...I've never fought a war, I just moved ammunition..."

He looked at him, and stared at him for a long time.

The young man was crying, tears streaming down his face. He was shouting something in Burmese, and Aung Dan heard him calling out "Mother," "Father," "I don't want to die."

He lowered his head and looked at the list in his hand.

Silent for a long time.

Then he looked up and waved his hand.

The young man was dragged away. He struggled and screamed, his fingernails leaving long marks on the ground. But he was still dragged to the riverbank.

Angdan stood up.

"I'm going for a walk."

Without waiting for Dante's reply, he turned and walked out of the village.

Behind me, there was another muffled thud.

He quickened his pace.

Outside the village stretched a rice paddy, the rice stalks just beginning to sprout, a vibrant green. Wildflowers bloomed along the paddy ridges, red, white, and yellow, bursting with color. In the distance, several farmers worked in the fields, bent over, pulling weeds.

Angdan stood on the edge of the field, watching the farmers.

They are also Burmese. They also farm, they also live, and they also wait for the harvest.

Unbeknownst to them, their compatriots were being executed just one kilometer away.

Another muffled thud came from the riverbank.

Angdan closed his eyes.

He remembered the trench in Naypyidaw, and the British officer he had killed. blond hair, blue eyes, very young. When he fell, his eyes were still open, looking at Angdan.

He could never forget those eyes.

Even now, some of the Burmese prisoners who were executed will not forget them.

He opened his eyes and looked at the distant, rolling mountains.

The mountains are still so green. The river is still so still. The sun is still so scorching.

Only people are killing and being killed.

He turned and slowly walked towards the village.

It's time to go back.