diymy Chapter 737 Special Operation for the Spring Festival!
Chapter 737 Special Operation for the Spring Festival!
"Those ships," Chen Feng said, "were fighting a few months ago. Now, they're celebrating."
He paused.
"The war is almost over. But not everyone will live to see it end. Those who survive should celebrate. Those who died—"
He didn't finish speaking.
But Ahmed understood.
Those who died should be remembered.
The clock struck midnight.
The entire city of Dubai was in an uproar. Fireworks went off even more frequently, firecrackers exploded deafeningly, and cheers echoed from every corner of the city.
Chen Feng raised his glass.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let us celebrate this great moment together! May peace and victory be with us in the new year!"
Saionji Kinmochi raised his glass: "To victory!"
He raised his glass: "To independence!"
Ahmed also raised his glass. Looking at the magnificent night sky, he said softly:
"To survive."
The four wine glasses clinked together, making a crisp sound.
At that very moment, on the Iranian-Indian border, two thousand kilometers away from Dubai.
Wang Guojian stood in a jeep, looking at his watch.
The second hand ticked away, one tick at a time.
23:59:55.
23:59:56.
23:59:57.
23:59:58.
23:59:59.
Midnight.
He waved his hand and ordered, "Let's go!"
Forty thousand Lanfang soldiers crossed the Iran-India border. (Today's Pakistan)
The tank engines roared, their tracks grinding through the sand, kicking up clouds of dust. The truck headlights formed a long line, starkly visible in the darkness. Soldiers huddled in the truck beds, gripping their rifles, staring into the unknown darkness ahead.
They advanced northeastward towards Grad.
They advanced southeast towards the port of Makran.
As Wang Guojian sat in the jeep, watching the two steel dragons gradually disappear into the distance, a question suddenly came to mind.
What are those comrades who are celebrating the Spring Festival doing now?
Eating dumplings? Watching fireworks? Reuniting with family?
he does not know.
But he knew that once they took India, they could celebrate the festival together.
The outer sea of Karachi.
Li Te stood on the bridge of the Dingyuan, holding up his binoculars and looking at the faintly visible coastline in the distance.
Behind them, dozens of landing ships were being lowered. Soldiers from the 1st Marine Division were boarding the ships, their movements swift and silent. No one spoke; only the sound of waves lapping against the hulls could be heard.
Chief of Staff Lin Huaiyuan walked to his side and said softly, "General, everything is ready. We await your command."
Li nodded.
He looked at the coastline that was getting closer and closer, at the land that was about to become a battlefield.
Karachi. Britain's most important port on the western coast of the Indian Ocean. Taking it would give Lanfang a foothold in India.
"Tell the 1st Marine Division," he said, "that after landing, take the port first, then the city. If the British resist, wipe them out on the spot."
Lin Huaiyuan nodded and turned to relay the order.
Li Te continued to look at the coastline.
In the distance, the afterglow of fireworks still shimmered on the horizon. That was the direction of Dubai, the direction of Chen Feng, the direction of home.
He said softly, "General, wait. Once we've taken India, we'll come back to celebrate the New Year with you."
Myanmar border, towards Dhaka.
Kazuo Yamamoto stood outside the temporary command post, looking at the densely packed army in front of him.
Japan has ten divisions, totaling 250,000 men. The Burmese Independence Army has two divisions, totaling 20,000 men. Together, they number 270,000, and are gathering under the cover of night.
The soldiers marched in long lines toward the border. Their footsteps rustled like countless feet crunching on fallen leaves. No one spoke; only the occasional command and the click of a rifle bolt could be heard.
Chief of Staff Kenta Doihara walked over and handed over a telegram.
"General, a scout reports. The British have been building fortifications around Dhaka for three months, with at least 50,000 men guarding it. The jungle is full of bunkers and minefields."
Kazuo Yamamoto took the telegram, read it once, then folded it up and put it in his pocket.
He stared at the dark jungle and remained silent for a long time.
He thought of Bendal Hill during the Burma campaign, of the soldiers who died in the jungle, and of Kuala Lumpur, which was bought with the lives of 22,000.
That was street fighting, urban warfare; at least they could still deploy troops.
This is jungle warfare—no matter how many troops you have, you can't deploy them effectively.
"Doihara," he finally spoke, "where are the people who believed in him?"
"Two divisions of the Myanmar Independence Army have already deployed on the left flank. They are familiar with the jungle and can serve as guides."
Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.
"Tell them that in jungle warfare, they will be the main attackers. The Japanese soldiers will follow behind, only engaging when they encounter tough opponents."
Kenjiro Doihara was stunned for a moment: "General, this—"
Kazuo Yamamoto looked at him.
"Doihara, 42,000 died in Malaya, and 53,000 died in Myanmar. Japan doesn't have that many lives to fill the jungle."
Kenta Doihara lowered his head: "Yes."
A muffled thud came from afar—the sound of a landmine exploding; the vanguard had already engaged the British forces.
Kazuo Yamamoto took a deep breath.
"Order all divisions to advance. Advance cautiously. Detour if possible, evade if possible. British lives are worthless. The lives of Japanese soldiers are valuable."
Kenpad Bay.
The Bismarck cruised silently in the night, its massive hull gleaming with a cold metallic sheen under the moonlight.
Scheer stood on the bridge, holding up his binoculars and looking at the distant, faintly visible port—Mumbai.
There, Jellicoe's fleet remained hidden in the harbor, too afraid to come out.
The chief of staff approached: "General, the reconnaissance plane reports that the British are still in port. All eight capital ships and five cruisers are there. Not a single one has moved."
Scheer put down his binoculars and gave a cold laugh.
"That coward Jericho, does he plan to stay in the harbor until the war is over?"
The chief of staff laughed: "Perhaps he's scared. He can't beat the Bismarck-class ships, the Tirpitz, the Dingyuan, and the Jiyuan."
Scher shook his head.
"No. He's not afraid, he just doesn't know what to do. If he comes out to fight, he won't win. If he doesn't come out, and the Lanfang people take over Karachi and the whole of India, he'll still die."
He turned to look at the chief of staff.
"Tell the fleet to hold. Don't launch an attack, just hold. Once the Lanfang people take Mumbai by land, Jellicoe will be sitting ducks."
The chief of staff nodded and turned to relay the order.
Scheer continued to look at the port in the distance.
He recalled Chen Feng's words: "General Sher, come back alive."
It'll be soon. After this battle, we'll be able to go back alive.
In the distance, towards Mumbai, some dark dots could be vaguely seen moving—those were British reconnaissance planes, still futilely monitoring them.
Scher looked at the black dots and suddenly felt a pang of pity.
They were soldiers too. They also wanted to go back alive.
But they followed the wrong people and fought the wrong battle.