diymy Chapter 743 Did they have 4 people? No.
Chapter 743 Did they have 4 people? No.
Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.
"Where are the Burmese people?"
"More than sixty people died."
Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for a long time.
Then he said, "Doihara, how much longer do you think we're going to have to stay in this godforsaken place?"
Kenichi Doihara thought for a moment.
"I don't know. But it should be soon. Wang Guojian's side is making rapid progress. Once they reach Hyderabad, the British in Dhaka will panic. If they panic, they'll make mistakes. And if they make mistakes, we'll have an opportunity."
Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.
"Yes. Soon."
He stood up and looked at the dark jungle.
In the distance, on the British positions, beams of searchlight occasionally swept across, illuminating a patch of trees and trenches. Those beams of light were particularly glaring in the darkness, like eyes staring at them.
He said softly, "Wait. Once Wang Guojian has reached Hyderabad, we'll attack together."
Mumbai Harbour, headquarters of the British Far East Fleet.
Jericho sat in his office, also looking out at the night sky.
Three telegrams lay before him. He had read them countless times, but with each reading, his despair grew.
Grad has fallen. Karachi has fallen. Three hundred thousand people from the Cherry Blossom Kingdom are approaching Dhaka.
The pliers are closing.
The chief of staff pushed open the door and came in, his face even more grim than during the day.
"General, another telegram has arrived from London."
Jericho did not turn around.
"What did you say?"
The chief of staff remained silent for three seconds.
"Say, at all costs, save India."
Jericho turned around and looked at him.
"At all costs? What cost could we possibly have left to pay?"
The chief of staff did not speak.
Jericho walked to the window and continued to look out at the night.
In the distance, on the horizon, German warships were still patrolling. The four Bismarck-class ships stood like four vicious dogs guarding his doorstep.
He suddenly laughed.
That kind of laughter sent chills down the chief of staff's spine.
"Chief of Staff, tell me, if I rush out now, how many of us could survive?"
The chief of staff was stunned.
"General?"
Jericho turned to look at him.
"Eight capital ships against four Bismarck-class battleships. Their firepower is inferior, their speed is inferior, their armor is inferior. How many can survive?"
The chief of staff remained silent for a long time.
Then he said, "None of them will survive."
Jericho nodded.
"Yes. Not a single one will survive."
He walked back to his desk and sat down.
"A telegram to London: India is doomed. Your Majesty, please prepare yourselves."
The chief of staff was stunned.
"General, this—"
Jericho waved his hand.
"Send it out. Let them know the truth."
The chief of staff hesitated for three seconds, then saluted and turned to leave.
After the door closed, Jericho sat there alone.
He looked out the window at the night sky, at the warships that were faintly visible in the distance, at those warships that were about to become history.
He suddenly recalled General Nelson's last words: "Thank God, I have done my duty."
Have you fulfilled your responsibilities?
He did not.
He failed.
But at least he told the truth.
February 14, 1918, was Valentine's Day.
On this day, Lanfang's 40,000-strong army captured Grad and the port of Mokran.
On this day, the Lanfang Marine Corps occupied Karachi.
On this day, 270,000 people from the Cherry Blossom Kingdom advanced inch by inch towards Dhaka through the jungle.
On this day, the German fleet continued its blockade of Mumbai port.
On this day, Jellicoe, commander of the British Far East Fleet, sent his last telegram: India could not be saved.
February 10, 1918, Egypt, west bank of the Suez Canal.
The sun rose from the edge of the desert, bathing the entire camp in a golden-red hue. Tents stretched endlessly from the riverbank to the distant dunes, like a white ocean. Wisps of smoke rose from the campfires, mingling with the morning mist and obscuring the red sun on the horizon.
General Allenby stood on a high ground, holding up his binoculars and looking at the Sinai Peninsula across the water.
The telescope's lenses reflected a faint light in the morning glow. He stared at it for a long time, motionless.
Behind them, an army of 400,000 was awakening. Soldiers emerged from their tents, lining up for breakfast—hard bread, salted meat, and tea—the same rations they had on the European battlefields. Some complained, some remained silent, and some squatted on the ground smoking, gazing at the distant land that would soon become a battlefield.
Chief of Staff General Layton walked over to him, also raising his binoculars to look at the opposite bank.
"General, reconnaissance plane reports that the Lanfang troops are still in place. 120,000 men, and their positions are very well fortified."
Allenby put down his binoculars and remained silent.
He looked at the soldiers, the veterans who had fought on the battlefields of Europe. Every face bore the marks of time—some had scars, some were missing fingers, some walked with a limp. But in their eyes, there was something they all shared.
That's the look in the eyes of someone who survives.
"Lydon," he finally spoke, "do you know where these soldiers came from?"
Layton paused for a moment: "How did they get here? They were evacuated from France."
Allenby shook his head.
"It wasn't a withdrawal, it was a selection. London chose these 400,000 from hundreds of thousands of people. They were all veterans, all had seen blood. The Somme, Verdun, Passchendahl—they had fought in every tough battle."
He turned to look at Layton.
"Tell me, have the people of Lanfang ever seen soldiers like this?"
Layton did not speak.
Allenby gave a cold laugh.
"What battles have the Lanfang people fought? In Malaya, against those terrified Indian soldiers? In Burma, against those starving colonial troops? Have they ever seen real war?"
He walked down the hill and headed towards the camp.
Layton followed behind.
"General, when shall we attack?"
Allenby stopped and turned to look at him.
"Wait. Wait until all the troops are here. Wait until all the supplies are in place. Wait until the people of Lanfang think they are safe."
He paused.
"Then, eat them all in one go."
February 11, the command post in the center of the camp.
On the huge sand table, the terrain of the Sinai Peninsula was accurately replicated—sand dunes, depressions, dry riverbeds, and the east-west road that runs through the peninsula. Small red flags were planted at the location of the Lanfang position, while small blue flags represented the British army.
Allenby stood in front of the sand table, holding a long, thin bamboo pole in his hand.
Chief of Staff Layton stood beside him, pointing to the red area on the sand table.
"General, the main force of the Lanfang people is here. They've been building their positions for three months, with trenches, bunkers, and minefields—everything is there."
Allenby nodded.
"Where are our tanks?"
Layton was silent for three seconds.
"Forty-eight Mark I tanks. They are all old models, slow, with thin armor, and their guns are inferior to those of the Lanfang tanks."
Allenby looked at him.
"Forty-eight vehicles versus more than five hundred?"
Layton lowered his head.
"Yes."
Allenby suddenly laughed.
"Leyton, do you know how many tanks we first saw on the Somme?"
Layton shook his head.
"Eighteen tanks. Eighteen Mark I tanks, exactly the same as ours now. The Germans didn't have tanks, only machine guns, barbed wire, and trenches. And what happened? Eighteen tanks scared the Germans so much they ran away in terror."
He pointed to the red area on the sand table.
"Tanks are inanimate objects, but people are alive. The people of Lanfang had 500 tanks, but did they have 400,000 people? No. Did they have 400,000 veterans? Even less."