roccoschili Chapter 753 I don't want casualty figures, I just want Dhaka
Chapter 753 I don't want casualty figures, I just want Dhaka
The battle lasted for a full three hours.
At seven o'clock in the morning, the sun rose over the jungle, turning the entire battlefield blood red.
Kazuo Yamamoto stood on a high ground, holding binoculars and looking at the first line of defense in the distance, which had been captured by Japanese soldiers. In the trenches, soldiers were cleaning up the battlefield, dragging British corpses aside, carrying the wounded away, and collecting weapons and ammunition.
Kenjiro Doihara ran over, panting heavily.
"General, the first line of defense has been taken. But... the casualties are too high."
Kazuo Yamamoto did not turn around.
"How many?"
Kendai Doihara's voice was trembling.
"The First Division suffered over 3,000 casualties. The Second Division suffered over 2,000 casualties. The Third Division suffered over 4,000 casualties. The Fourth Division..."
"Enough. I don't want casualty figures, I just want Dhaka," Yamamoto Kazuo interrupted him.
Kenjiro Doihara shut his mouth.
Kazuo Yamamoto put down his binoculars and turned to look at him.
"What about the second line of defense?"
"Still in British hands. Scouts report at least 20,000 men guarding that side. The fortifications are stronger than the first line, and there are more machine guns."
Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for three seconds.
"Order all divisions to rest for one hour. After one hour, continue the attack."
Kenjiro Doihara was stunned.
"General? The soldiers are exhausted, and the casualties are too high. If they don't rest soon..."
Kazuo Yamamoto looked at him, his gaze eerily calm.
"Doihara, do you know what the British are doing right now?"
Ken Doihara shook his head.
"They're running away," Yamamoto Kazuo said. "Their morale collapsed after the news from Sinai came. The first line of defense fell in just three hours, which would have been impossible before. Now the soldiers on the second line of defense must also be hesitating, afraid, and thinking about how to escape."
He pointed to the British positions in the distance.
"If we stop now and give them time to reorganize, they'll realize we don't have many people left, and they'll regain their courage. If we fight again then, even more people will die."
Kenichi Doihara remained silent for three seconds.
Then he stood at attention and saluted.
"Yes, General."
At 8:30 a.m., the second attack began.
This time, the Japanese soldiers' charge was even more frenzied than the first.
They trampled over the corpses of their comrades, through pools of blood, their eyes red with fury, charging toward the second line of defense. Landmines were still exploding, machine guns were still firing, but no one stopped, no one retreated.
Yamada Ichiro rushed to the middle of the group.
His left arm was bleeding—he didn't know when he'd been cut by shrapnel, and the blood was dripping down his arm, drying quickly on the sand. But he didn't bother with bandaging it; he just kept running, running, running.
The young soldier next to him was still there.
The boy had been shot in the left shoulder, and blood stained half of his uniform red. But he kept running, gritting his teeth, without uttering a sound.
"Hey kid," Yamada Ichiro called out as he ran, "what's your name?"
"Tanaka...Tanaka Jiro."
Yamada Ichiro was taken aback.
Tanaka Jiro. Tanaka Ichiro's younger brother.
Tanaka Ichiro, who wrote him a letter in Kuala Lumpur telling him "just live," died in the ruins of Kuala Lumpur. His younger brother is now running beside him.
"I know about your brother's situation," Yamada Ichiro said.
Tanaka Jiro did not speak.
Yamada Ichiro did not say anything more.
The two continued running.
Ahead, the second line of defense is getting closer and closer.
The British machine guns fired even more fiercely.
Bullets swept through like a storm, and soldiers around him fell in droves. Yamada Ichiro saw a soldier next to Tanaka Jiro get hit in the forehead, fall backward, his eyes still open, staring at the sky.
He didn't stop.
Tanaka Jiro did not stop either.
Thirty meters.
Twenty meters.
Ten meters —
They jumped into the second trench.
In the trenches, British soldiers were retreating. Some threw down their guns and ran; some raised their hands and knelt on the ground to surrender; some continued to resist and were stabbed to death by Japanese soldiers with bayonets.
Yamada Ichiro rushed into a bunker where several British officers were hiding. They were pointing their pistols at the door.
He raised his rifle and aimed.
A shot rang out.
It wasn't just one sound, but several sounds mixed together.
He didn't know who he had hit, he only knew that those people had fallen down.
Then he leaned against the wall of the bunker, panting heavily.
Tanaka Jiro rushed in, covered in blood. His gun was stained with blood, his face was splattered with blood, and his hands were covered in blood.
"Old soldier," he asked, panting, "did we... win?"
Yamada Ichiro looked at him without saying a word.
He stepped out of his bunker, stood in the trench, and looked at the third line of defense in the distance that had not yet been captured.
There, the British battle flags still fly.
At 2 p.m., Kazuo Yamamoto stood on a high ground on the second line of defense, looking through binoculars at the third line of defense in the distance.
Kenta Doihara stood beside him, holding the newly compiled casualty figures in his hand, his hand trembling.
"General, the First Division has 3,000 men left. The Second Division has 4,000 men left. The Third Division has 2,000 men left. The Fourth Division has 8,000 men left. In total, we have less than 20,000 men left to fight."
Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent.
"General," Kenta Doihara's voice trembled, "we can't rinse it anymore. If we do, it'll be completely ruined."
Kazuo Yamamoto lowered his binoculars and looked at him.
"Where are the people who believed in him?"
"Two divisions of the Burma Independence Army have also been decimated. Less than 8,000 men remain."
Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for three seconds.
He looked at the third line of defense in the distance, at the faintly visible British battle flags, and at the soldiers still moving in the trenches.
Of the 50,000 British troops, how many are left after this battle?
Maybe 20,000, maybe 10,000.
They're almost at their breaking point too.
"Doihara," he said, "order all divisions to launch the final attack."
Kenjiro Doihara was stunned.
"General—"
Kazuo Yamamoto interrupted him.
"The British are in a worse situation than us. They're dying too, they're collapsing too. Now it's just a matter of who can hold out the longest."
He pointed to the third line of defense in the distance.
"Tell the soldiers, take this line, and Dhaka will be ours. If we don't, the deaths we've made will have been in vain."
Kenichi Doihara remained silent for three seconds.
Then he stood at attention and saluted.
"Yes, General."
At 3 p.m., the final attack began.
Yamada Ichiro no longer had the strength to run.
He carried his gun, walking step by step toward the third line of defense. His steps were heavy, as if filled with lead, each step requiring all his strength. The wound on his left arm was still bleeding, but he could no longer feel the pain.
Tanaka Jiro walked beside him.
The child's face was ashen, his lips purple, and the light in his eyes was almost extinguished. But he kept walking, step by step, alongside him.
"Old soldier," Tanaka Jiro suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse and unlike his own, "do you think we can get back alive?"
Yamada Ichiro remained silent for three seconds.
"Yes," he said.
Tanaka Jiro was stunned for a moment.
"real?"
Yamada Ichiro did not answer.
He looked up at the approaching defensive line ahead, at the dark muzzles of guns, and at the figures moving about in the trenches.
Then he raised his gun and, with his last breath, roared:
"Rush!"
They rushed forward.
This time, the British machine guns only fired for a few minutes.
Then, it stopped.
When Yamada Ichiro jumped into the third trench, this was the scene he saw—
In the trenches, British soldiers were scattering and fleeing. Some threw down their guns and ran away; some raised their hands and knelt on the ground to surrender; some held their heads and squatted in a corner, trembling all over.
A British officer stood in the middle of the trench, pistol raised, trying to organize resistance. He fired at the fleeing soldiers, killing one, two, three. But more men ran past him, ignoring him.
A soldier from the Japanese Empire rushed up to him and plunged his bayonet into his stomach.
He fell down, his eyes still open, looking at the sky.
Yamada Ichiro stood there, watching all of this.
Won?
he does not know.
All he knew was that he was still standing, still breathing, and still able to see.