Chapter 532: Lightning Strike on Yangon (6)

In the air, Song Yunfei looked at the sea of fire covering Yangon below and said into the communicator, "All crews, attention: bomb drop complete, inspect aircraft, withdraw in order, we return to Dongzhi, the rest is left to William's fighter squadron!"

"Copy! Crew One withdrawal complete!"

"Crew Two aircraft normal, withdrawing!"

Twelve P38 Lightning fighters tightly escorted the bomber formation on both sides, scanning the surroundings warily to ensure no mishap.

They were the last to drop bombs on Yangon, then followed the B25 Lightning aircraft, withdrawing from the battlefield.

The young pilot looked at the fire below, his voice fervent, "Captain, look! The Little Devil got stunned by our bombing!"

Song Yunfei nodded slightly, his gaze firm: "This is only the beginning. When William's fighter squadron arrives, we'll give the Little Devil another round and crush their will to resist completely!"

Outside the city, Zhang Bing's Tank Regiment had withdrawn to a safe zone; the soldiers sat on the tanks, watching the fire and thick smoke inside Yangon, faces full of exhilaration.

A tank driver laughed, "Nice work, Captain Song's bomber is awesome; after this blast, the Little Devil probably doesn't even have the strength to cry!"

Zhang Bing lit a cigarette, stared at the fire, his tone firm: "Just wait. When the air raid ends, we'll charge in, flatten Yangon completely, and claim this victory!"

"All vehicles, check weapons and gear; don't let me get any slip‑ups!"

"Ammunition, fuel, load everything onto me!" Zhang Bing roared loudly.

"Yes, Regiment Commander!"

Jiang Anguo stood on the heights, watching the bomber formation in the sky and the fire within the city, a faint resolute smile curling his mouth.

He knew Yangon's destruction was imminent, the Expeditionary Force's southward objective about to be fulfilled.

The most desperate now is Angshan, who had hoped to rely on the Japanese to free Myanmar from British colonial rule.

But subsequent events made Angshan realize that if the British are a wolf, the Japanese are a tiger.

And not just any tiger, but a tiger that devours people without spitting out bones; they not only aim to defeat the British, the Japanese seek total annexation of Myanmar.

Angshan is merely a puppet of the Japanese.

Yet before this puppet could act, the Japanese Army collapsed like a mountain, repeated frontline defeats giving Angshan a false impression.

Is it that the Japanese can't beat the British? No, the Japanese opponent isn't the British; the British main forces in Myanmar have all been captured alive.

Huaxia Army, facing Huaxia Army.

Huaxia Army defeated the Japanese in Myanmar and is now marching southward, invading Myanmar.

Angshan looked at the ruins of Yangon, terrified; after a night of bombardment, at dawn he saw a swarm of bombers filling the sky like dark clouds.

Huaxia's air force completely destroyed Yangon.

After the Japanese Army entered Myanmar, Angshan seized the moment to rally the Burmese populace under the banner of "striving for independence," quickly forming a massive Burmese volunteer army.

Numbers swiftly surpassed fifty thousand, with thirty thousand armed; the weapons they bore were all British arms captured by the Japanese on the Myanmar battlefield.

In fact, the British Enfield rifle is a fine gun, ten‑round capacity, enough to dominate South‑East Asia.

However, to train a unit, weapons alone aren't enough.

Angshan's unit merely picked up weapons, cobbling together a seemingly combat‑capable force.

But this newly formed army was ultimately just a bunch of untrained, blood‑unseen civilians.

Usually they only performed simple drill under Japanese supervision, never partook in large‑scale combat, never witnessed real battlefield slaughter.

When the Expeditionary Force's air raid and ground assault struck simultaneously, the roar of B25 bombers overhead, the scream of P38 fighters, the treads of Sherman tanks and the boom of artillery on the ground intertwined, instantly scattering them in terror.

On Yangon's streets, Burmese volunteer soldiers were in chaos, their weapons already discarded on the ground; some curled in a corner, hands clasping their heads, trembling all over, uttering desperate whimpers.

Someone stared blankly at the bombs raining from the sky, frozen in terror, not even thinking of fleeing.

Another tried to turn and run, but was halted on the spot by a nearby Japanese supervision squad; a cold barrel pressed to his back, any step would mean a bullet to the head.

"Bagga Road!"

"No running! Anyone who dares to retreat will be shot on the spot!"

The Japanese supervision squad's soldiers, rifle in hand, barked loudly.

The rifles crackled intermittently; a Burmese volunteer attempting to flee fell with a shot, blood staining the stone pavement beneath his feet.

This scene further froze the other soldiers, their breathing cautious, trembling amid the artillery, passively bearing the Expeditionary Force's devastating onslaught.

Bombs kept falling on the Burmese volunteers' positions; massive blasts hurled soldiers into the air, debris scattering, many buried by collapsing houses, screams, cries, and explosions mingling into a chilling cacophony.

A young volunteer, still clutching a British Enfield, his face streaked with tears and fear, choked to his comrade, "I don't want to die, I want to go home… we can't stop them at all, why are we here to die?"

His companion was already too frightened to speak, merely shaking his head, eyes full of despair.

They knew they had no chance to flee; forward lay the Expeditionary Force's artillery, backward the Japanese supervision squad's barrels—any path led to death.

The volunteer force that Angshan had high hopes for proved utterly fragile before real war; the so‑called "resistance" was nothing but a futile struggle.

At this moment, inside Angshan's makeshift command post, the atmosphere was oppressively tense; explosions outside rose and fell, walls buzzed from the shaking, dust continuously fell from the roof.

Just then, Angshan's deputy Wu Naiwen staggered in, ragged clothes, face covered in dust and blood, hair disheveled, looking utterly bedraggled, barely able to stand, clutching the wall and gasping.

"Commander! Withdraw quickly! Yangon can't hold! If we don't leave now, we'll all be trapped here!" Wu Naiwen's voice trembled with sobs, eyes full of terror, tone urgent, as if to drag Angshan away from this living hell.

Angshan sprang to his feet, seized Wu Naiwen's collar, his gaze urgent, voice tinged with a barely perceptible tremor, demanding sharply, "What's the panic! How are the troops? Where's our volunteer army? Where have those soldiers gone?" He refused to accept that the fifty‑thousand he'd built could be so vulnerable.

Wu Naiwen, choked by Angshan's grip, terror intensifying, struggled free, crying, "Angshan, stop worrying about the troops! It's hopeless! Huaxia Army's assault is too fierce—air raids, tank charges—we can't hold them at all!"

"The troops have already scattered! Soldiers either blown up by bombs or terrified into fleeing; the Japanese supervision squad killed many escapees, yet the collapse continues! Now the city is riddled with Huaxia Army artillery; if we don't leave now, it'll truly be too late!" Wu Naiwen's words fell like cold water on Angshan's head.

Angshan staggered back a step, arms limp at his sides, his firm expression fading instantly, replaced by disbelief and deep despair. He leaned against the wall, staring at the fiery Yangon beyond the window, his heart filled with regret and unwillingness.

He truly hadn't expected this day to arrive so soon; he believed that with fifty thousand volunteers plus Japanese assistance, Myanmar could achieve independence and freedom.

But in the end, it was just a joke.

The artillery outside still raged; he knew Yangon truly could not be held.