Chapter 690: Myanmar Campaign 3

"Prone!" someone shouted.

The soldiers lay on the hillside, faces pressed to the mud, listening to bullets whizzing overhead. Someone was hit, screaming and rolling down. Another stayed motionless there, unsure whether dead or too afraid to move.

Shangtian raised his binoculars, watching the soldiers lying on the hillside.

"Order the mortars to continue suppression."

Shells fell again. This time, one struck the machine‑gun bunker on the summit directly. That machine gun fell silent.

"Charge!"

The soldiers scrambled to their feet and kept climbing upward.

Fifty meters. Thirty meters. Twenty meters—

Hand grenades were thrown in, exploding inside the trench. The soldiers leapt into the trench, engaging the enemy with bayonets.

Shangtian lowered his binoculars and let out a long breath.

"Got it."

Two hours later, the report arrived: 420 killed, over 300 wounded. The British Army's one division was completely annihilated.

Shangtian stared at the numbers, silent for a long while.

Four hundred twenty dead. Adding the three hundred plus wounded, over seven hundred were gone.

Chief of Staff walked over, speaking softly: "General, when we cleared the battlefield we found that the British Army's division actually numbered about a thousand, not fifteen hundred."

Shangtian looked up at him.

"Intelligence wrong?"

Chief of Staff nodded: "The scouts said they may have misread earlier. Actual strength was about a thousand."

Shangtian lowered his head again, looking at the statistics.

One thousand versus seven hundred. Even if the British Army were all dead, they still lost over four hundred.

"One division, over four hundred lives exchanged," he muttered, "this ledger can't be balanced."

Chief of Staff said nothing.

Shangtian stood up and walked out of the temporary command post.

On the hillside, soldiers were carrying bodies, one by one, wrapped in white cloth and lowered down the slope. Some corpses were whole, some mutilated, some only half left. Blood spattered along the way, glaring in the sunlight.

Outside Chengcheng, Mucun Jianyi lay on the ground, face pressed to the mud.

The Seventh Division had been attacking for three days.

Three days passed, the British Army's positions held steady. The city resembled a massive beast crouching on the ground, its mouth open, waiting for them to crawl inside. Soldiers who charged fell in waves; corpses piled across the fields outside the city, uncollected, rotting in the scorching sun, emitting a foul stench.

Mucun Jianyi lay in a shell crater, beside a few comrades from the same squad. No one spoke; they simply lay there, waiting for the next charge order.

In the distance, artillery fire roared — the division's artillery bombarding the British Army's positions. Shells fell into the city, exploding into clouds of smoke. Yet the British fortifications were too sturdy; the bombardment achieved little.

"Now it's our turn," an old soldier said nearby, his voice as calm as if commenting on the weather.

Mucun said nothing. His mouth was so dry it wouldn't open, his tongue felt like sandpaper. His water bottle had been empty for three days. He tried to swallow a mouthful of saliva, but nothing came.

The whistle sounded.

"Charge!"

Mucun scrambled to his feet and ran forward with the crowd.

Under his feet lay something soft and spongy — bodies, some from yesterday, some from the day before. He dared not look down, focusing instead on the hill ahead, running for his life. His legs felt as heavy as lead; each step required all his strength.

The machine gun fired.

Soldiers around him fell one after another. Mucun heard bullets whizz past his ears, heard someone scream, heard someone shout "Mama". Yet he did not stop; he could not stop, for stopping meant death.

Ahead was an earthen slope. He lunged forward, rolling to the other side.

Gasping heavily.

Another soldier rolled over beside him, his chest a mass of blood, still spurting out. He opened his mouth to shout, but only managed a hoarse sound. He stared at Mucun, his eyes full of terror.

Mucun stared at him, unable to do anything.

The soldier twitched a few times, then fell still.

Mucun closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then opened them, peered over the slope, and kept running forward.

Twenty meters, ten meters, five meters—

He leapt into the British Army's trench.

The trench was filled with corpses—British, Sakura Nation, all mixed, indistinguishable. Blood turned the mud at the trench bottom a dark red; stepping in was sticky, each step feeling like walking in a swamp.

A British soldier burst from a corner, brandishing a bayonet toward him. Mucun instinctively raised his rifle, parrying the thrust, then drove the bayonet into the man's abdomen.

The soldier let out a howl, fell to his knees, hands covering his belly as blood gushed from his fingertips. He stared at Mucun, his lips moving as if to speak, but the blood choked his throat.

He died.

Mucun leaned against the trench wall, panting heavily.

He killed again.

He didn't know which number it was.

Lieutenant Laji lay in the summit fortifications, a revolver clenched in his hand.

His company had only thirty‑seven men left.

Three days of fighting, over a hundred brothers—some dead, some fled. The remaining thirty‑seven men had terror in their eyes. They huddled in the trench, gripping their guns, staring at the Sakura Nation soldiers still charging below the hill, their bodies trembling.

"Lieutenant," a Corporal crawled over, voice trembling, "the Sakura Nation are coming up again. They… they don't even dodge the bullets, they just charge. Our men… can't hold much longer."

Laji said nothing.

He stuck his head out, watching the Sakura Nation soldiers charging below. They trod over comrades' corpses, over pools of blood, eyes reddened as they surged upward. That madness reminded him of the asuras of Indian mythology—demons unafraid of death, knowing only slaughter.

"Fire!" he shouted.

The machine gun roared again. Sakura Nation soldiers fell in waves, but those behind kept charging. Closer and closer—

Laji suddenly didn't want to fight anymore.

They looked at the Indian soldiers around them—some from Punjab, some from Mumbai, some from Kolkata. They were far from home, in this strange country, selling their lives for the Queen of Yingguo. But where was the Queen of Yingguo? Where were the officers who sent them?

They were all at the rear, in safe places. Only the Indian soldiers were shielding them from bullets.

"Lieutenant," the Corporal said again, "we… we should retreat."

Laji looked at him and was silent for three seconds.

Then they nodded.

"Retreat."

The Corporal was stunned: "Lieutenant, you…"

"Retreat!" Laji raised their voice, "Tell the brothers to retreat! No more fighting!"

The word spread, and the trench began to stir. Indian soldiers dropped their rifles and turned to run. Yingguo officers behind fired, killing two deserters, but it was useless. More people surged forward, knocked the Yingguo officer down, and stepped on him.

Laji also ran.

They ran past the second trench, past the third trench, past the ammunition boxes that hadn't been opened yet. Behind them, the shouts of Sakura Nation soldiers grew nearer—

"Long live!"