Chapter 689: Myanmar Campaign 2

In the jungle of Irrawaddy Province, Yamamoto Ichiro carried his rifle and slowly advanced behind the unit.

It was the third day of the offensive.

The tropical rainforest was oppressively hot and humid like a steamer. Sweat ran down his cheeks into his eyes, stinging painfully. Mosquitoes buzzed around, biting until his body was covered in welts. The ground was rotting leaf litter, soft underfoot, and occasionally a snake was stepped on, causing a startle.

"How far is it?" someone ahead asked.

The scout turned his head and said, "Once we crest this hill, the first village is there."

Yamamoto Ichiro wiped the sweat from his face and kept moving forward.

He was a regular soldier of the th Division, twenty‑one this year, from a tiny fishing village in Kyushu. Three months earlier he had been fishing at sea, and now he was fighting in the Burmese jungle. Sometimes it felt like a dream, but the stench of his sweat, the mosquito bites, and the blisters on his feet reminded him it was real.

An older soldier beside him muttered as he walked, "This damned place is hotter than hell. How did Yingguo think to build a colony here?"

Another soldier replied, "They don't even fight themselves; it's the Indian troops who bear the brunt."

"Exactly. The Indian soldiers suffer too, dying for Yingguo without ever knowing whose cause they died for."

Yamamoto Ichiro did not join their conversation. He only wanted to get out of the jungle quickly, find that village, finish the mission, and—live to return.

Two hours later, the scout ran back and reported, "There's a village ahead!"

The liaison commander lifted his binoculars for a moment, then waved his hand. Two battalions formed up and moved to encircle the village.

The village was tiny, a few dozen bamboo huts scattered among the coconut palms. Yamamoto Ichiro hunched his back, pushing forward with the unit. His barrel pointed ahead, his finger on the trigger, his palms slick with sweat. His heart hammered, thudding as if it would burst out of his throat.

Three hundred meters. Two hundred meters. One hundred meters—

The village remained silent.

No gunfire, no silhouettes, not even chickens or dogs.

The vanguard rushed into the village. Minutes later, someone shouted, "No one! They've all fled!"

Yamamoto Ichiro exhaled a sigh of relief, leaning against a bamboo hut and breathing heavily.

An older soldier came over and handed him a coconut, "Have some water."

Yamamoto Ichiro took the coconut, cut a mouth with his bayonet, tipped it back and drank. The juice was sweet and clear, flowing down his throat, more thirst‑quenching than anything. He finished it in one gulp and wiped his mouth.

"Yingguo never intended to hold this place," the veteran said, lighting a cigarette. "They all fled, leaving an empty shell for us."

Yamamoto Ichiro looked at the empty bamboo huts around him and asked, "So we just keep chasing like this?"

"Chase. Chase to the sea, chase to India, chase until there are no Yingguo left," the veteran inhaled. "That's war. The fast live, the slow die."

The liaison commander gathered the officers for a meeting in the center of the village. From a distance, Yamamoto Ichiro heard them say that the next target was a town fifty kilometers away, expected to be reached by tomorrow afternoon.

He leaned back against a bamboo hut and closed his eyes.

Fifty kilometers. Another day of marching.

But at least there was no fighting, no dead, no terrifying gunfire or screams.

A young soldier came over and sat beside him. The soldier looked younger, his face still bearing a hint of childishness.

"Veteran, have you ever fought in a war?"

Yamamoto Ichiro looked at him and was silent for a second.

"I have."

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

Yamamoto Ichiro gave no answer.

The young soldier waited a moment, saw his silence, and asked another question: "Is war… scary?"

Yamamoto Ichiro thought for a moment.

"Scary," he said, "but once you're in it you don't feel it. It's after it's over that it's scary."

The young soldier was taken aback and asked, "Why?"

"Because you recall those who were killed," Yamamoto Ichiro said, closing his eyes. "They appear in your dreams, asking why you killed them."

The young soldier opened his mouth, seemed about to speak, but said nothing.

Yamamoto Ichiro kept his eyes closed, still leaning against the bamboo hut.

Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the coconut trees, casting dappled shadows on his face.

Ten days later, the th Division swept across Irrawaddy Province.

Over three hundred were killed, over five hundred wounded. The whole region was occupied.

That night, Yamamoto Ichiro sat in an Yingguo manor, eating seized canned food, listening to distant gunfire—the sound of follow‑up troops clearing remaining enemies. He watched the prisoners being taken away, the confiscated weapons, and the soldiers as exhausted as himself.

Over three hundred were killed.

Three hundred plus names, three hundred plus families, three hundred plus people who would never return home.

He recalled the young soldier who had asked him, "Is war scary?" That boy was killed in a small skirmish on the third day, a stray bullet striking his forehead, killing him instantly. Yamamoto Ichiro saw him fall, watched the light in his eyes dim point by point.

The boy's name was Zuoteng, only nineteen.

Yamamoto Ichiro took a bite of the canned beef and chewed slowly.

The living must keep eating. The dead no longer need to.

Outside Paben City, there was a small hill.

The hill wasn't tall, but its slope was steep; the trees had been cleared, exposing a barren incline. At the summit one could see trenches and machine‑gun emplacements, the dark gun barrels pointing down the hill.

The liaison commander of the 11th Division, Major Shangtian, held his binoculars and stared at the hill.

He had been looking for ten minutes.

The Chief of Staff stood beside him, pointing at the fortifications and said, "Intelligence reports the defenders are a regiment, about fifteen hundred men, a mix of Yingguo and Indian troops. The works have been built for half a month and are very sturdy."

Shangtian lowered the binoculars.

"A regiment holding such a broken hill. Yingguo is trying to buy time," he said.

He turned to face the three battalion commanders behind him.

"The 1st Battalion will feign a frontal assault to draw fire. The 2nd Battalion will flank on the left, the 3rd Battalion on the right. Mortars will fire for ten minutes first, suppressing the summit's fire."

The three company commanders simultaneously stood at attention: "Yes!"

Twenty minutes later, the mortars began firing.

Six 81‑mm mortars fired simultaneously, Shells whistling toward the summit, exploding into clouds of smoke on the hillside. Soil, rock fragments and splintered wood were tossed into the air, then fell back down.

"Charge!"

Soldiers of the first company leapt from behind the cover and rushed up the slope.

The slope was steep; after a few steps they slipped, panting from exhaustion. The soldiers held their rifles, hunched over, climbing step by step. Sweat ran into their eyes, blurring the view; they only knew to go up, up, up—

Machine‑gun fire crackled from the summit.

It wasn't a single burst but dozens of shots firing together. Bullets rained down like a storm, cutting down the front‑line soldiers in sheets, rolling down the slope. Cries of agony, shouts of alarm and curses blended into one.