diymy Chapter 741 This is not a samurai sword
Chapter 741 This is not a samurai sword
Kazuo Yamamoto lowered his binoculars and looked at him.
"Where are the people who believed in him?"
"Two divisions of the Burma Independence Army have already deployed on the left flank. They are familiar with the jungle and can serve as guides. But—"
"But what?"
Kenjiro Doihara hesitated for a moment: "But their equipment is inadequate. They only have rifles, no machine guns, no mortars. If they encounter British bunkers, they can only fill the gaps with their own lives."
Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for a long time.
He thought of Mount Bundal during the Malayan campaign, of the Japanese 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, "order all divisions to slow down. Don't charge headlong into the enemy lines."
Kenjiro Doihara was taken aback: "General, you mean—"
Kazuo Yamamoto pointed to the jungle ahead.
"Look, the British have positioned their main force in the jungle, avoiding direct confrontation with us. They're in the shadows, while we're in the open. Cannons can only be pulled by mules and horses. Soldiers can only crawl forward step by step."
He paused.
"This kind of battle cannot be rushed. If it is rushed, it will only cost lives."
Kenjiro Doihara nodded: "Understood."
"Tell those who believe in him to lead the main attack. They are familiar with the jungle and know where to go and where not to go. The Japanese soldiers should follow behind and only attack when they encounter tough opponents."
Kenta Doihara nodded again.
Kazuo Yamamoto looked at him, his voice suddenly becoming very soft.
"Doihara, 42,000 died in Malaya, and 53,000 died in Myanmar. Japan doesn't have that many lives to fill the jungle."
Kenjiro Doihara lowered his head.
"Yes, General."
A muffled thud came from afar—the sound of a landmine exploding.
Then came gunfire, a barrage of gunfire.
Kazuo Yamamoto suddenly raised his head.
A communications soldier ran back from the front, covered in blood: "General! The advance troops have stepped into a minefield! An entire company is wiped out!"
Kazuo Yamamoto gritted his teeth.
"Order all units to halt their advance. Engineers, proceed and clear the mines."
He turned to look at the dark jungle, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes.
How many people will this jungle devour?
he does not know.
But he knew there must be a lot.
February 12th, deep in the jungle.
The sappers lay prone on the ground, searching inch by inch with mine detectors. The detectors emitted a piercing beeping sound; each beep meant another landmine had been discovered.
Demining is a slow job. It requires one person, a mine detector, and a long probe. Find the mine, dig it out, and remove the fuse. It can take more than ten minutes to clear a single mine.
And in this jungle, there are thousands of mines buried.
The soldiers crouched behind the engineers, rifles raised, their eyes fixed intently ahead. Sweat streamed down their faces, stinging their eyes. But no one dared wipe it away, no one dared to move.
A young soldier whispered to the veteran next to him, "Squad leader, are we just going to wait like this?"
The veteran glanced at him.
"Wait. You can only leave after the engineers have cleared the mines."
The young soldier swallowed hard.
"How long will it take?"
The veteran remained silent for three seconds.
"I don't know. Maybe in a day, maybe in two days, maybe—"
He didn't finish speaking.
Another muffled thud came from afar.
Another sapper stepped on a landmine.
The young soldier closed his eyes.
He didn't want to watch.
On February 13th, we advanced one kilometer.
It's only one kilometer.
After a whole day of clearing mines, we'd barely walked a kilometer. The British had laid so many mines, it was terrifying. Every step we took was fraught with the fear of an explosion.
At night, the soldiers huddled in makeshift foxholes, afraid to light a fire or speak. The jungle was pitch black, with only the occasional chirping of insects and the distant sound of British cannon fire.
Kazuo Yamamoto leaned against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
Kenta Doihara walked over and sat down next to him.
"General, seventeen more have died today."
Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.
"What about the Burmese side?"
"More than forty people died. They rushed to the front and stepped on the landmines for us."
Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for a long time.
He recalled Prime Minister Saionji's words before he departed: "Jungle warfare, protect your soldiers."
Protect the soldiers.
How to protect it?
In this godforsaken place, bullets have no eyes, and landmines don't discriminate. Whoever rushes ahead dies, whoever scouts ahead dies.
He took a deep breath and stubbed out his cigarette on the tree trunk.
"Doihara, have the Japanese soldiers lead the way tomorrow."
Kenjiro Doihara was stunned.
"General? Didn't you say—"
Kazuo Yamamoto interrupted him.
"I know I said that. But more than forty Burmese people died, while only seventeen Japanese died. That doesn't make sense."
He stood up and looked at the dark jungle.
"Believe that he shed blood in Burma, and his soldiers shed blood for us. We can't let people think that Japan will only hide in the back. That's not Bushido."
Kendai Doihara stood up and saluted.
"Yes, General."
Kazuo Yamamoto waved his hand.
"Go to sleep. You have to leave tomorrow."
Ken Doihara turned and left.
Kazuo Yamamoto stood alone in the darkness, looking at the unknown jungle ahead.
He suddenly remembered a question.
How far is Dhaka?
Thirty kilometers? Or three hundred kilometers?
he does not know.
But he knew that no matter how far it was, he had to finish the journey.
February 14, Kenpad Bay.
The sun rose above the sea, turning the entire ocean a golden-red hue. The sea was calm, without wind or waves, save for the occasional seagull flying by, uttering a few piercing cries.
The Bismarck cruised silently on the sea, its massive hull gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen in the sunlight. The Tirpitz followed behind, maintaining a distance of five hundred meters. The two colossal ships, like two sleeping beasts, quietly awaited their prey.
Scheer stood on the bridge, holding up his binoculars and looking at the distant, faintly visible port—Mumbai.
It's been five days already.
For five days, the British fleet did not come out once.
The chief of staff walked over to him and handed him a cup of coffee.
"General, the reconnaissance plane has just returned. The British are still in port. All eight capital ships and five cruisers are there. Not a single one has moved."
Scher took the coffee and took a sip.
"What is Jericho doing?"
The chief of staff shrugged.
"I don't know. Maybe they're in a meeting, maybe they're yelling at someone, maybe they're sleeping."
Scher smiled.
"Sleep? How can he sleep?"
He put down his binoculars and walked to the chart table.
The chief of staff followed and pointed to the port of Mumbai marked on the nautical chart.
"General, our submarines have been keeping watch outside the harbor. If the British dare to come out, they will be discovered. Their fleet is slower and less powerful than ours; coming out would be suicide."
Scher nodded.
"Then why don't they surrender?"
The chief of staff was taken aback.
"Surrender? General, they are the Royal Navy. The proud Royal Navy never surrenders."
Scher sneered.
"Never surrender? Jellicoe's twelve capital ships fought two training ships for three hours and still couldn't win. Is this what you call the Royal Navy?"