diymy Chapter 754 Taking Dhaka
Chapter 754 Taking Dhaka
Cheers could be heard in the distance.
That was the cheers of the Japanese soldiers, the sound of them taking down the third line of defense.
Yamada Ichiro leaned against the trench wall and slowly slid down.
Tanaka Jiro also sat down and leaned against him.
Neither of them spoke.
I just sat there, watching the figures of people still running, listening to the gunshots that were getting farther and farther away.
At dusk, the Rising Sun Flag of Japan, the land of cherry blossoms, was raised in the central square of Dhaka.
Kazuo Yamamoto stood in the center of the square, watching the flag fluttering in the setting sun. Around him, the ruins of the city were still smoking, the bodies had not yet been cleared, and the wounded were still groaning.
Kenichi Doihara walked over and handed over a report that had just been compiled.
"General, preliminary statistics show 53,000 dead and over 40,000 wounded. Half of the ten divisions have been decimated."
Kazuo Yamamoto took the report and read it through.
Fifty-three thousand people.
Including the 42,000 deaths in Malaya and the 53,000 deaths in Myanmar, nearly 150,000 people have died in Japan.
He stared at the numbers and remained silent for a long time.
Then he folded the report and put it in his pocket.
Send a telegram to Dubai.
Kendai Doihara took out paper and pen.
Kazuo Yamamoto remained silent for three seconds.
"Daka has been captured. The Japanese soldiers did not disgrace Lanfang."
Kendai Doihara finished writing and looked up at him.
"General, is that all?"
Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.
That's all.
Kenjiro Doihara turned around and went to relay the order.
Kazuo Yamamoto stood there, looking at the sky in the distance that was stained red with blood.
He thought of the soldiers who died in the jungle, the young men who were blown up during the charge, and the recruit who asked in the trench, "Will we be able to get back alive?"
Fifty-three thousand people.
Fifty-three thousand fine young men of the Cherry Blossom Country remain here forever.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Yamada Ichiro walked up to him and stopped.
His left arm was wrapped in thick bandages, and the bleeding had stopped. His face was covered in ash, and his eyes were sunken, but they still shone.
"General," he said, "Dhaka has been taken."
Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.
Have you seen the casualty statistics?
"I've seen it."
Kazuo Yamamoto turned to look at him.
How many men are left in your unit?
Yamada Ichiro remained silent for three seconds.
One hundred and twenty-seven.
Kazuo Yamamoto closed his eyes.
One hundred and twenty-seven. There were two thousand five hundred men before the attack.
He opened his eyes and looked at the darkening sky in the distance.
"Yamada, do you think these dead people will blame us?"
Yamada Ichiro remained silent for a long time.
Then he said, "General, I don't know."
Kazuo Yamamoto nodded.
"I don't know either."
As night fell, Dhaka fell silent.
The Japanese soldiers huddled in the ruins; some smoked, some stared blankly, and some dozed off against the wall. No one spoke, no one laughed; they just sat there in silence.
In the distance, the occasional gunshot rang out—it was the patrol mopping up the remaining enemy forces.
Yamada Ichiro leaned against a broken wall, his eyes closed. He wasn't asleep, he was just resting.
Footsteps sounded from the side. Tanaka Jiro walked over and sat down next to him.
The child's left shoulder was wrapped in bandages, and his face was pale, but there was still light in his eyes.
"Old soldier," he said softly, "we won."
Yamada Ichiro opened his eyes and looked at him.
"We won."
Tanaka Jiro remained silent for a few seconds.
"My brother... if only he were still here."
Yamada Ichiro remained silent.
Tanaka Jiro lowered his head, looking at his hands. His hands were still trembling slightly.
"He wrote me a letter. He said, 'Just being alive is enough. As long as you're alive, you can go home.'"
His voice grew softer and softer.
"But he didn't survive."
Yamada Ichiro reached out and placed his hand on his shoulder.
"You live. You live for him."
Tanaka Jiro looked up at him.
Her eyes were a little red, but she didn't cry.
He nodded.
In the distance, stars began to light up the night sky.
One, two, three—more and more.
As Yamada Ichiro looked at the stars, a question suddenly came to mind.
Did those who died also turn into stars?
he does not know.
But he hopes so.
9 p.m. London time.
Asquith sat in his office, holding the telegram from Dhaka. He had read it more than a dozen times, but with each reading, his despair grew.
"Daka has fallen. The Japanese army has occupied the entire city. Most of our garrison has been annihilated, and the remainder have surrendered."
He put down the telegram and closed his eyes.
India can't hold out any longer!
That jewel in the crown of the British Empire has been lost.
In Dubai, the sun rises from the Persian Gulf at dawn, bathing the entire city in a golden-red hue.
The sea shimmered, as if sprinkled with shards of gold. In the distance, the minarets of the mosque stood out sharply in the morning light, and the long, drawn-out chanting of prayers emanated from the loudspeakers atop the minarets, calling the faithful to begin a new day. At the docks, workers were already busy at work; cranes creaked and groaned as they turned, and cargo ships sounded their horns—everything was as usual.
But today is different from usual.
On the dock, a young worker put down his work and suddenly pointed into the distance, shouting, "Look! Look!"
Everyone looked up and followed the direction he was pointing.
At the port entrance, several massive warships were slowly sailing in. Those were the Huaihe and Zhujiang, along with several destroyers. They had just completed sea trials, leaving the shipyard to return to the place where they had fought.
But what made people cheer was not these warships.
It was the flag flying on the warship.
Full flag.
From bow to stern, from mast to hull, colorful signal flags adorned the entire warship. They fluttered in the morning breeze, like patches of colorful clouds.
That was the highest-level celebration ceremony in the Navy.
An old worker paused for three seconds, then threw down his tools, raised his hands, and shouted with all his might:
"We won! We won!"
That shout was like a spark falling into a frying pan.
The dock erupted in excitement.
The workers dropped what they were doing, hugged each other, cheered, and jumped for joy. Some took off their hats and threw them into the air, some knelt on the ground and kissed the earth beneath their feet, and some hugged each other, laughing and crying at the same time.
"We won! Sinai won!"
"Four hundred thousand British people, all wiped out!"
"Well done, King Zhao!"
The cheers grew louder and louder, so loud that even the seagulls flew away.
The young worker stood in the crowd, tears streaming down his face as he laughed. He remembered the Huaihe warship three months earlier, when it was towed back to port—the massive breach, the twisted steel plates, the blood-stained deck. Back then, looking at that wrecked warship, he had only one thought in his mind: Could it still be repaired?
Now, it's fixed. And, it won.
He rubbed his eyes hard and continued cheering.
The docks were getting more and more crowded. Not just workers, but also citizens who had come from the city. Men, women, the elderly, and children all flocked to the docks, to the harbor, and to the warships that were sailing in.
The Huaihe slowly approached the shore. On the deck, sailors stood in formation along the ship's railing, waving to the crowd on the shore. The people on the shore went even wilder, shouting, yelling, and jumping.
A young sailor stood on the deck, looking at the sea of people, his eyes welling up with tears. An older sailor stood next to him and patted him on the shoulder.
"Hey kid, why are you crying?"
The young sailor shook his head.
"I didn't cry. I was just... just happy."