Chapter 685: Assault on Burma

Lin Zhongfu opened his mouth, a gurgling sound coming from his throat, and finally managed to squeeze out a sentence: "General, I don't know."

"I also don't know," Xiaoyuan Chuan turned around, continuing to stare at the two battleships ahead, "but I know many will die. Possibly more than in Malaya."

Lin Zhongfu stood there, not knowing what to say.

In the distance, Zhenyuan's signal light began to flash. A communications soldier ran over: "General, Zhou Zhen guo General is on the line: the fleet has entered Mota Ma Bay, Distance Yangon one hundred twenty nautical miles. It can reach the bombardment position by early tomorrow morning."

Xiaoyuan Chuan nodded.

"Reply: Received."

He paused, then said: "Send orders to all th Division, tonight extra rations. Let the soldiers have a good meal."

Lin Zhongfu was stunned: "General, this …"

"The battle starts tomorrow," Xiaoyuan Chuan cut him off, "let them have a good meal. Perhaps … it's the last one."

Lin Zhongfu was silent for three seconds, then stood at attention: "Yes!"

He turned and went to deliver the orders.

Xiaoyuan Chuan continued to stand on the bridge, watching the silhouettes of the two battleships. The setting sun was sinking into the sea, dyeing the whole expanse a golden‑red. The two massive ships, in that golden‑red light, looked like two moving mountains, silently pushing forward.

Footsteps came from behind. A young officer walked over and saluted.

"General, dinner is ready."

Xiaoyuan Chuan did not turn around.

"I'm not hungry."

The officer hesitated, seemed about to speak, but ultimately said nothing, turned and left.

Xiaoyuan Chuan stood there alone, watching the golden‑red sea.

He recalled many years ago, when he first enlisted. He was nineteen then, standing on the training ground's field, listening to the drill instructor. The instructor said, soldiers of the Sakura Nation must be loyal to the Sky Locust, must die for the Empire.

At that time he thought death was far away, abstract, like words in a book, like symbols in a painting.

At four o'clock in the morning, the sea of Mota Ma Bay was pitch black.

Tianzhong Erlang lay on the landing craft's deck, his hands gripping tightly a Type 38 rifle. The butt pressed into his chest, hurting sharply, pressing enough that he could count the wood grain lines. Yet he dared not move—he feared that any movement would make him wet his pants.

The landing craft was packed with people. Soldiers of th Division nd Regiment were packed together like sardines. No one spoke, only heavy breathing and occasional dry retching sounds. The smell of sea brine mixed with sweat was so strong it made one want to vomit.

A young soldier beside him muttered softly: "Why hasn't it arrived yet …"

Another veteran lowered his voice and shouted at him: "Shut up! Hold on!"

The young soldier tucked his chin in, daring not to speak again.

Tianzhong Erlang closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. But as soon as he did, he recalled the letter received three days earlier. It was from his brother Tianzhong Yilang, sent from Malaya; the letter was brief, only a few lines:

"Erlang, I'm still alive. The fighting in Malaya is over, forty thousand died. I don't know how I survived, but I'm still alive. You must stay alive too. Once you get ashore, don't think too much, just stay alive."

"Just stay alive."

Tianzhong Erlang opened his eyes, looking at the tightly shut hatch ahead of the landing craft. Behind the hatch lay sea, a beach, British Army machine guns, and bullets that might fly in at any moment.

He suddenly needed to pee.

The urge came so strong he almost had to pull down his trousers on the spot. But surrounded by people, he felt embarrassed. He could only hold it, his lower belly tightening, the inner thigh muscles twitching.

The landing craft jolted violently, grounding on the beach.

The hatch slammed down.

In that instant, seawater surged in, icy, rising past the ankles, past the knees, past the thighs. It carried a heavy scent—uncertain whether it was sea brine or blood.

"Charge!"

Someone shouted.

Tianzhong Erlang leapt into the sea. The water didn't reach his waist; each step required his full effort. He raised his rifle, stepping on the sand beneath, desperately sprinting toward the beachhead. Around him were people, dense as a school of fish driven into the sea.

One hundred meters. Eighty meters. Fifty meters—

The British Army opened fire.

In that instant, Tianzhong Erlang felt the world ripped apart.

It wasn't a single gunshot, but countless gunshots blending into one, like ten thousand drums beating at the ears simultaneously. Bullets swept over like a hailstorm, emitting a sharp whistling. Soldiers around fell in waves; some were hit in the head, blood splattering on their faces; some were pierced through the chest, letting out a scream as they fell into the sea; some, dragging broken legs, crawled on the ground, only to be riddled by subsequent bullets.

The seawater began to turn red.

"Fall down!" someone shouted.

Tianzhong Erlang threw himself into the seawater, his face buried in sand. Bullets whistled over his head, striking the landing craft behind him, clanging. Waves of seawater surged, carrying a warm, briny‑sweet scent. He knew it was blood, the blood of the fallen around him.

"Long live!"

A wild shout rose from behind. Tianzhong Erlang looked up, seeing Colonel Ono, commander of nd Regiment, draw his command sword, pointing toward the beachhead. The blade glittered with a cold light in the dawn, like a flash of lightning.

"Long live the charge! Kill them all!"

The soldiers scrambled up, eyes reddened, charging toward the beachhead. No one ducked, no one fell, they surged straight into the machine‑gun fire. Some were hit and fell, while those behind stepped over their bodies and kept charging. That madness, that reckless frenzy, made Tianzhong Erlang shiver all over.

He also got up, charging along.

Bullets whistled past his ears; he could feel the wind, feel death brushing his skin as it flew by. Soldiers around fell one after another, but no one stopped. One could not stop; stopping meant death.

Twenty meters. Ten meters. Five meters—

He surged onto the beach.

Underfoot was soft, sand, something unknown pressing his soles. He didn't look down, dared not. He only knew to run forward, charge forward, forward—

Ahead, the British Army's first trench lay right before him.

Amaer lay in the trench, his fingers tightly gripping the trigger of his Lee-Enfield rifle.

He was an Indian Punjabi, conscripted three months ago, having spent half a month on a ship to Burma. The officer said Burma was Yingguo's land, to be defended from invasion by the Sakura Nation. The officer also said the Sakura Nation were all short dwarfs, collapsing at the first strike.

Now the Sakura Nation had truly arrived.

Amaer looked through his sights at the soldiers charging from the sea—clad in earth‑yellow uniforms, rifles raised, shouting as they ran. Their shouts carried for hundreds of meters, sounding like a pack of beasts howling.

"Fire!" the officer shouted.

Amaer pulled the trigger. The butt of the gun slammed into his shoulder, shaking with a painful sting. He saw a Sakura Nation soldier fall with a sound, plunge into the sea, and never get up again.

He pulled the bolt again, aimed, fired. Another one fell.

Again he pulled, again aimed, again fired. Another one.

But his fingers began to tremble.