World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Chapter 764 Raising the Flag

Zhang Haiyang took the letter and handed it to Liu Zhenjie. Liu Zhenjie opened the envelope, took out the letter, and read it through. The letter was short, only one page long, but he read every word carefully.

The letter stated that London had ordered all British forces in Australia to surrender to the Lanfang army on May 28th. The Sydney garrison was complying with the order and requested arrangements for the surrender ceremony. At the end of the letter, Major General Smith wrote in small print: "For four months, your army has achieved victories against overwhelming odds, and has overcome slowness with speed. The Australian people and soldiers alike admire you. Although we have been defeated and surrender, we are convinced of your superiority."

After reading the letter, Liu Zhenjie folded it and put it in his pocket. He looked at the young British major, remained silent for three seconds, and then asked, "Why didn't your commander come himself?"

The major paused for a moment, then replied, "The general is currently assembling troops inside the city. Twenty-three thousand men; it will take time."

Twenty-three thousand men. Liu Zhenjie silently repeated the number in his mind. Three months ago, the Sydney garrison was said to number fifty thousand. Now only twenty-three thousand remained. Of the remaining twenty-seven thousand, some died in battle, some died of disease, some deserted, and others—were chased all the way, scattered, lost, or disappeared without a trace.

"Tell your commander," Liu Zhenjie said, "that I will accept the surrender outside the city at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Let him lead all the officers out of the city in formation."

The major saluted, turned and left.

Zhang Haiyang leaned closer and whispered, "Commander, are we going into town tomorrow?"

Liu Zhenjie nodded.

"And today?"

Liu Zhenjie looked at him and suddenly smiled. "Today? Today, let the brothers get a good night's sleep. Four months have passed; finally, they can get a peaceful night's rest."

At 9:00 AM on June 2nd, outside Sydney.

The sun had fully risen, its golden rays spilling onto the grass, the distant city walls, and the lowered British flag. Liu Zhenjie stood before the makeshift reviewing stand, behind him a row of impeccably dressed officers, and behind them, the Lanfang soldiers arrayed in square formation. The soldiers' uniforms were somewhat worn, their faces bearing the marks of travel, but each one stood ramrod straight.

In the distance, the city gates of Sydney slowly opened.

The first to emerge was Major General Smith, riding a white horse. He wore a crisp general's dress uniform, his chest adorned with medals that gleamed in the sunlight. Behind him were two rows of mounted officers, and behind that, four columns of British soldiers.

The column moved slowly. The horses' hooves pounded the grass with a dull thud. The soldiers' steps were perfectly synchronized, their boots rustling on the ground. No one spoke; only the sound of flags fluttering in the wind could be heard.

As Liu Zhenjie watched the slowly approaching column, a strange feeling welled up inside him. This wasn't the first time he'd witnessed a surrender. Over the past few months, from Pidamara to Darwin, from Darwin to Cairns, and from Cairns to here, he'd seen British troops surrender far too often. But this time was different.

This time, it's the last city.

Major General Smith reined in his horse before the reviewing stand, dismounted, walked up to Liu Zhenjie, stood at attention, and saluted. Then he unfastened his sword from his waist and presented it with both hands.

It was a beautiful sword, with gold patterns inlaid on the scabbard and a line of small characters engraved on the hilt. Liu Zhenjie took the sword and glanced at the inscription—"God bless our king." He handed the sword to Zhang Haiyang behind him, then looked at Smith.

Smith was also looking at him. The two generals stared at each other for three seconds, neither of them speaking.

Then Liu Zhenjie spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but every word was as clear as if carved in stone. "General Smith, your soldiers will be treated well."

Smith nodded. "Thank you."

Liu Zhenjie turned to the side and pointed to the open grassy area next to the reviewing stand. "Have your soldiers assemble over there. The tents are already set up, and there's food and water. The wounded and sick will receive treatment."

Smith nodded again. He turned and waved to the troops behind him. The British soldiers began to move toward the meadow, their steps still orderly, but each face bore an indescribable expression—a mixture of relief, resentment, bewilderment, and unease about what would happen next.

A young soldier passed by Liu Zhenjie. He looked to be under twenty, with a youthful innocence still lingering on his face. His uniform was torn, and his boots were covered in mud, but his rifle was gleaming. As he walked past Liu Zhenjie, he suddenly stopped, turned around, and looked at Liu Zhenjie.

Liu Zhenjie was also looking at him.

The soldier opened his mouth and asked in broken English, "Is the war... over?"

Liu Zhenjie nodded.

The soldier paused for a moment. Then, his eyes reddened. He tried desperately to hold back the tears, but they still streamed down his face. He lowered his head, wiped his face with his sleeve, and continued walking. After a few steps, he suddenly stopped and glanced back at Liu Zhenjie.

There were too many things that couldn't be explained in that one glance.

As Liu Zhenjie watched the young figure gradually disappear into the distance, a sudden pang of sadness gripped his heart. This boy might have been transferred from England, or he might have been drafted into the army; perhaps his parents were waiting for him at home. He had fought for two years on this unfamiliar land, and now he could finally go home.

But what about those who can't go back?

He shook his head, dismissing the thought.

3 p.m., Sydney Harbour.

Liu Zhenjie stood on the highest pier in the harbor, looking at the flagpole in the distance. The British Union Jack was being slowly lowered. Two British soldiers were lowering the flag; their movements were slow and meticulous, as if performing a sacred ceremony.

The flag stopped halfway down. The two soldiers exchanged a glance, then continued lowering it. But the moment the flag touched their hands, one of the soldiers suddenly hugged it tightly to his chest, burying his face in it, his shoulders shaking.

The soldier next to him patted him on the back without saying a word.

Liu Zhenjie watched this scene without saying a word. Zhang Haiyang stood beside him, also silent. Everyone around remained silent, simply watching quietly.

After a long while, the soldier finally let go. They folded the flag neatly and handed it to an officer nearby. The officer, holding the neatly folded flag, walked up to Liu Zhenjie.

"General," his voice was a little hoarse, "this is the flag of the Sydney garrison. Please accept it."

Liu Zhenjie took the flag. It was made of silk and very light, but it felt incredibly heavy in his hands. He paused for three seconds, then handed the flag to Zhang Haiyang behind him.

"Keep it safe," he said.

Then he looked up at the empty flagpole.

The flagpole was tall, its top gleaming metallically in the sunlight. From this day forward, the British Union Jack would no longer fly there. From this day forward, the Lanfang Golden Dragon Flag would fly.

Liu Zhenjie turned around and said to the communications soldier beside him, "Raise the flag."