Chapter 688: Myanmar Campaign 1

Tianzhong Erlang sat on a reef, watching the blood‑red sea. His left leg was wrapped in thick bandages; the bleeding had stopped, but the pain remained. What hurt more than the wound was the indescribable feeling in his heart.

A person walked over and sat beside him.

It was the blood‑smeared veteran. The wound above his left eye had been bandaged, wrapped in white bandages, standing out in the dusk.

He handed Tianzhong Erlang a rice ball.

"Eat. Freshly made."

Tianzhong Erlang took the rice ball and took a bite. The rice was hard, with a burnt flavor, but he chewed slowly and carefully.

The veteran lit a cigarette and stared at the sea.

"First time?"

Tianzhong Erlang froze for a moment, then nodded.

The veteran exhaled a puff of smoke.

"The first time is always like this. After a few more, it'll be fine."

Tianzhong Erlang looked at him: "Veteran, your first… how many people did you kill?"

The veteran was silent for a long while.

Then he said, "Forgot."

"Forgot?"

"Forgot," the veteran said, taking another drag, "Killed too many, can't remember."

He turned his head toward Tianzhong Erlang, his eyes flashing in the dusk—tired, hollow, yet with an indefinable quality.

"Kid, don't overthink. Overthinking will kill you."

Tianzhong Erlang said nothing.

He watched the sea grow darker, the smoking British Army fortifications, and the distant bodies wrapped in white cloth awaiting transport.

Eight thousand.

Eight thousand names, eight thousand families, eight thousand people who will never return home.

"Veteran," he asked suddenly, "Tell me, can we still go home?"

The veteran looked at him, silent for three seconds.

Then he said, "Don't know."

He stood up and brushed the dust from his seat.

"But as long as you're alive, there's hope."

He left.

Tianzhong Erlang sat alone there, watching the nightfall creep in.

In the distance, the camp lit campfires. The flames danced in the darkness like countless struggling hands.

The living gathered around the fire, sitting in silence.

No one sang, no one spoke; they simply sat, waiting for the next dawn.

Waiting for the next charge, the next battle, the next wave of death.

Outside Rangoon Port, a temporary command post.

Inside the tent, smoke curled and the kerosene lamp flickered in the afternoon heat. Four division commanders sat at the long table—th Division commander Major General Da Dao, Eleventh Division commander Major General Song Jing, Seventh Division commander Major General Shan Shi, and Eighth Division commander Major General Ben Xiang. Each wore fatigue, but their eyes gleamed—light that saw victory on the horizon and the light that knew more deaths lay ahead.

Xiaoyuan Chuan stood before the map, holding a thin bamboo rod. On the map, Myanmar's outline was densely marked with red and blue pencils—red arrows indicated their attack direction, blue circles the British Army's defensive positions, black crosses the reconned outposts.

"You've all seen Myanmar's terrain," Xiaoyuan Chuan began, his voice low but each word as clear as a nail driven into wood, "Yingguo forces here number about eighty to one hundred thousand. Half are Indian divisions, of average combat ability. Yet Myanmar's terrain is complex, jungle‑dense; the British Army knows it well, so we must be cautious."

The bamboo rod tapped three directions on the map.

"th Division, southwest to Irrawaddy Province," he said, looking at Major General Da Dao, "That area is a grain‑producing zone, Yingguo's defense is weak. Your mission is a swift strike, capture it within a week."

Major General Da Dao nodded, but his brows furrowed slightly: "General, is the intelligence accurate? Capture the whole province within a week?"

"The scout report says the Yingguo only fortify major towns; the countryside is blank," Xiaoyuan Chuan said, "Your task is rapid advance, avoid entanglement. If you meet resistance, bypass it, seize key points first, then let follow‑up troops mop up."

Da Dao was silent for a second, then stood upright: "Understood."

The bamboo rod moved toward the northeast.

"Eleventh Division, northeast toward Pabeng," Xiaoyuan Chuan looked at Major General Song Jing, "That area is near the Thai border, the garrison should be light. After taking it, guard the east side to prevent the British Army from receiving reinforcements from Thailand."

Major General Song Jing was a veteran in his fifties, a deep knife scar across his face from an incident in Cao County over a decade ago. He stared at the map, his finger pointing at Pabeng's location.

"Pabeng is a small town, but surrounded by mountains. Yingguo may use the terrain for defenses,"

"So you must be swift," Xiaoyuan Chuan said, "Strike before they have time to build fortifications."

Song Jing nodded: "Understood."

The bamboo rod finally rested toward the northwest, tracing a red line.

"Seventh and Eighth Divisions, follow me northwest. Daizhi, Dangji, Yingjiawu, with the final objective Nibeidu," Xiaoyuan Chuan said, looking at Major General Shan Shi and Major General Ben Xiang, "This is the main direction of the British Army's force, the hard fight lies ahead. Be prepared."

Shan Shi and Ben Xiang exchanged a glance, saying nothing.

The tent fell silent for a few seconds.

Xiaoyuan Chuan set the bamboo rod down, hands braced on the table, looking at the four division commanders.

"Myanmar Campaign, expected two months. Casualties…" he paused, "It may not be smaller than Malaya's. Tell the troops, win this battle and they can rest."

The four division commanders rose together: "Yes!"

The chairs scraped a harsh sound on the floor. They filed out, leaving only Xiaoyuan Chuan inside the tent.

He stood before the map, watching the red arrows, silent for a long while.

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu entered, carrying a cup of tea.

"General, you haven't eaten since this morning. Have some tea,"

Xiaoyuan Chuan took the cup, didn't drink, just held it to warm his palm.

"Lord Lin, do you think they can complete the mission?"

Lin Zhongfu was startled for a moment: "General, you mean …"

"Oshima over there, Irrawaddy Province, should be fine. Matsui over there, Paben, might also go smoothly. But Shanshi and Benxiang …" Xiaoyuan Chuan's gaze fell on the red line to the northwest, "Daizhi, Dangji, Yingjiawu, all the way are hard nuts. The Yingguo will die‑hold there."

Lin Zhongfu was silent for a few seconds.

"General, should we transfer the th Division or the Eleventh Division over there for support?"

Xiaoyuan Chuan shook his head.

"It's too late. If we wait for them to take Irrawaddy and Paben, then rush over, it will take at least half a month. Shanshi and Benxiang will have to hold on by themselves."

He took a sip of tea; the tea was cold, but he didn't mind.

"Lord Lin, issue the order: all divisions depart at dawn tomorrow. Let the soldiers get a good night's sleep tonight."

Lin Zhongfu stood at attention: "Yes!"

He turned to leave, but Xiaoyuan Chuan called him back.

"Also, have logistics prepare more stretchers and medicines. We'll need a lot later."

Lin Zhongfu looked at him, nodded, and turned away.

Only Xiaoyuan Chuan remained in the tent.

He walked to the tent entrance, lifted the curtain, and watched the soldiers busily moving outside. The setting sun was sinking into the sea, dyeing the whole camp a golden‑red hue. Soldiers came and went, hauling supplies, checking gear; some were smoking, some writing letters, some leaning against the tent, spacing out.