roccoschili Chapter 765 Dhaka's Surrender
Chapter 765 Dhaka's Surrender
The communications soldier nodded and ran to the flagpole. Several soldiers worked together to tie a brand-new golden dragon flag to the rope. Then, they began to pull the rope.
The golden dragon flag slowly rose. The golden dragon's body shimmered in the sunlight, its five claws outstretched as if about to fly out of the flag. The wind blew, and the flag fluttered, the sound like the dragon's low roar.
Liu Zhenjie looked up, watching the flag rise higher and higher until it stopped at the top of the flagpole. It fluttered in the wind and shimmered in the sunlight, like a burning flame.
He looked at the flag and suddenly remembered four months ago. He had stood on the beach in Pidamara, watching the first landing craft surge ashore. He had told himself then that he would reach Sydney in three months.
He ran for four months.
7,000 kilometers.
More than five thousand lives.
Now, he is finally standing here.
He said softly, "Brothers, we're home."
The sound was faint and carried away by the wind; no one heard it. But Liu Zhenjie knew that his fallen brothers in heaven could hear it.
June 3, 1918
Location: Dhaka, India.
Kazuo Yamamoto had been standing on the ruins outside Dhaka for two whole hours.
He stood there, motionless, like a statue. The morning light shone on his face, illuminating the deep wrinkles, his cloudy yet sharp eyes, and his crisp military uniform. His left arm was still wrapped in bandages—a gash from shrapnel in the jungle battle three months ago, which hadn't fully healed yet.
But he couldn't care less about the pain.
He simply gazed at the distant city, the city he had won with the lives of 53,000.
Three months ago, he led 200,000 Japanese soldiers into this jungle. At that time, he stood on the border and said to Kenta Doihara, "Daka must be taken." Kenta Doihara asked him how long it would take, and he said he didn't know.
He didn't know how long it would take, but he knew many people would die.
Now he knows.
Three months, 53,000 people.
He threw the lives of 53,000 men into this jungle. In return, he gained this ruined city, and—the British Indian Commander-in-Chief who is here to surrender today.
Chief of Staff Kenta Doihara walked up to him and said softly, "General, they've arrived."
Kazuo Yamamoto nodded. He saw a troop of men slowly emerging from the city in the distance. Leading the way was a British general on horseback, his hair completely white and his uniform covered in dust. Behind him were dozens of officers on horseback, and behind them, a long line of British Indian Army soldiers.
The procession moved slowly, like a weary snake winding through the ruins.
Kazuo Yamamoto didn't move. He just stood there, watching the procession get closer and closer until it finally stopped in front of him.
The British general dismounted. He walked up to Yamamoto Kazuo, stood at attention, and saluted.
His movements were precise, his back ramrod straight, but Yamamoto Kazuo could tell—he was exhausted. It wasn't the exhaustion of a day or two, but the exhaustion of three months, a hundred days; the exhaustion of watching his soldiers die one by one, his defenses crumble one by one, and his hope extinguished bit by bit.
"General Yamamoto," his voice was hoarse but still steady, "I am Hudson, Commander-in-Chief of the British Indian Army. I have been ordered by London to surrender to your forces."
He unfastened the sword from his waist and presented it with both hands.
It was a very old sword. The patterns on the scabbard were worn and faded, and the leather wrapped around the hilt had turned black. Yamamoto Kazuo took the sword and looked at the small characters engraved on the hilt—"1914-1918." Four years. This sword had been with this old man for four years, fighting in battle.
He handed the sword to Kenta Doihara behind him, then looked at Hudson.
"General," he said, "how many soldiers do you have left?"
Hudson paused for three seconds. "Fifty thousand. Maybe less."
Fifty thousand. Three months ago, they had two hundred thousand.
Kazuo Yamamoto nodded. "What about the wounded and sick?"
"There are many. There aren't enough medicines, so we can only tough it out."
Kazuo Yamamoto turned to Kenta Doihara and said, "Give them half of our medicine. And some food too."
Kenjiro Doihara was stunned. "General, we're running low on medicine..."
Kazuo Yamamoto looked at him calmly. "Half."
Kenta Doihara lowered his head. "Yes."
Hudson watched this scene, a complex light flashing in his eyes. He wanted to say something, but opened his mouth and said nothing.
Yamamoto Kazuo then turned to him. "General, have your soldiers assemble in that open area outside the city. The tents are already set up, and there is food and water. The wounded and sick will receive treatment."
Hudson nodded. "Thank you."
Kazuo Yamamoto shook his head. "You're welcome. The war is over."
Hudson's soldiers began to assemble outside the city.
They walked slowly, each face bearing an indescribable weariness. Some limped along, leaning on crutches. Some were helped by their comrades, inching forward step by step. Some lay on stretchers, being carried. And some—and some simply sat there, on the ruins, by the roadside, where they had fought, motionless.
A Japanese soldier walked over and said in broken English, "Go, over there." The seated British soldier looked up at him, his eyes empty, devoid of any light. The Japanese soldier hesitated for a moment, then knelt down and helped him up. "You can walk. You can walk."
The British soldier was helped by him as they walked step by step toward the assembly point.
Kazuo Yamamoto stood on the high slope, watching this scene. He didn't speak, he just watched.
Footsteps sounded behind him. He walked over and stood beside him.
The leader of the Burmese independence army was dressed in traditional Burmese attire—a dark purple longyi and a white shirt. He had a smile on his face, but there was an indescribable complexity in that smile.
"General Yamamoto," he said, "I never imagined this day would come."
Kazuo Yamamoto looked at him. "Which day?"
He pointed to the British soldiers who were assembling. "Those white men, those white men who rode on our heads and bullied us, are now bowing their heads, lining up, waiting for us to deal with them." He paused, "I've waited my whole life for this day."
Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent.
He continued, “My father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather—they were all fighting the British. They didn’t live to see this day.” His voice trembled slightly. “I saw it. I lived to see it.”
In the distance, a soldier from the Burmese Independence Army suddenly knelt down.
He knelt on the sand, cupping the soil in his hands and kissing the ground beneath his feet. More people knelt down—one, two, ten, dozens. They knelt on the ground, crying, shouting, saying something in Burmese. Some roared to the sky, some prostrated themselves on the ground, some hugged their comrades, crying and laughing at the same time.
Xin stood there, looking at the kneeling soldiers, his eyes reddening.
He walked over to the first soldier who had knelt down. It was a young man, his face still bearing the innocence of youth, tears streaming down his face. He knelt down and held the soldier's shoulders.
"Get up," he said.