diymy Chapter 766 The Sinking of Mumbai Harbor
Chapter 766 The Sinking of Mumbai Harbor
The soldier looked up at him. "Chief, are we...are we really free?"
He nodded. "You're free."
The soldier paused for a moment, then burst into tears.
He helped him up and patted him on the back. "Get up. You're free now. You'll have plenty of time to cry later."
More soldiers stood up. They wiped away tears, watching the British prisoners gathering in the distance, watching those once high and mighty white men now walking past them with their heads bowed. Some gripped their guns tightly, some clenched their fists, some gritted their teeth, their eyes flashing with hatred.
But they didn't move.
Because I believe him—he said that freedom is not bought with hatred, but with blood. The blood has been shed enough.
Yamada Ichiro stood at the back of the crowd, watching all of this.
His left shoulder still hurts. Three months ago, during jungle warfare, shrapnel cut him, and it hasn't fully healed yet. The doctor said the shrapnel is stuck in the bone and can't be removed; he might have to wear it for the rest of his life.
He doesn't mind. Being alive is enough.
Footsteps sounded beside him. Tanaka Jiro walked over and sat down on the rock next to him.
The boy's left shoulder was also bandaged, and his face was still a little pale, but his eyes were shining. Three months ago, he was a clueless recruit, terrified by landmines in the jungle. Now, he survived. He fought the war, and he's alive.
"Old soldier," Tanaka Jiro said softly, "we won."
Yamada Ichiro nodded. "We won."
Tanaka Jiro was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the British prisoners being led away in the distance, at the Burmese independence army soldiers kneeling on the ground, and at the cherry blossom flag that was being raised. Then he lowered his head and looked at his hands.
Those hands were still trembling slightly. Not out of fear, but out of habit. For three months, those hands had been shaking, and they couldn't stop.
"Old soldier," he suddenly asked, "my brother... if only he were still here."
Yamada Ichiro remained silent.
Tanaka Jiro continued, "He wrote me a letter. At that time, I was still in Japan and hadn't come to Myanmar yet. In the 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 looked at him, at the unnatural weariness on that young face. He thought of the ruins of Kuala Lumpur, of Tanaka Ichiro who had written him the letter, of the young man who had told him, "Just being alive is enough." He, too, was dead. Dead in the ruins of Kuala Lumpur.
Yamada Ichiro reached out and placed his hand on Tanaka Jiro's shoulder.
"You live," he said. "You live in his place."
Tanaka Jiro looked up at him.
His eyes were a little red, but he didn't cry. He nodded.
In the distance, the sun began to set. The sunset dyed the entire sky blood red, turned the ruins gold, and stretched the shadows of the prisoners long, long.
Looking at the blood-red sky, Yamada Ichiro suddenly remembered a question.
Where are those who died in the jungle now? Are they in heaven? Are they watching over him?
he does not know.
But he hopes they are there.
He wanted them to see it—Dhaka was taken. India took it. The war was over.
They didn't die in vain.
June 5, 1918
Location: Port of Mumbai, India.
Jericho woke up at six in the morning.
He didn't sleep well. He woke up seven or eight times that night, each time looking out the window at the warships anchored in the harbor. They sat silently in the moonlight, their massive hulls gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen. That was his fleet, the culmination of thirty years of his hard work.
When I woke up for the last time, it was already dawn.
Jericho sat up, put on his uniform, and went out of his cabin. The deck was quiet, with only a few sailors on night watch moving about. They saw him, stood at attention, and saluted. He nodded and continued walking.
He walked to the bridge, stood by the window, and looked at the eight capital ships and five cruisers in the distance. They gradually became clearer in the morning light, their outlines becoming more and more distinct.
The chief of staff walked over from behind and stood beside him. He also looked at the warships but didn't say anything.
After a long silence, Jellicoe spoke. "Has the telegram from London arrived?"
The chief of staff nodded. "We've arrived. Four in the morning."
Jericho didn't turn around. "Read it."
The chief of staff took a deep breath and began to read:
"To Admiral Jellicoe, Commander-in-Chief of the Far East Fleet: Orders from London, your forces are to surrender to the Lanfang-German Combined Fleet. Ships to be handed over, officers and men to be repatriated. Date of execution: June 5th. The Government of His Majesty the King."
Jericho listened without any expression on his face.
The chief of staff finished reading and remained silent, waiting for him to speak.
Jericho remained silent for a long time. Then he said, "Show me the telegram."
The chief of staff took the telegram out of his pocket and handed it to him. Jericho took it, read it once, then again, and then again. He read it three times, then folded it up and put it in his pocket.
"Let's go," he said. "To the deck."
On the deck, the sailors had already gathered together.
They stood in small groups, whispering amongst themselves. Some wore expressions of relief—finally, they wouldn't have to fight anymore. Others wore expressions of anger—how could they hand over Royal Navy warships to the enemy? Still others wore expressions of bewilderment—unaware of what fate awaited them.
Jellicoe walked to the highest point of the bridge, stood there, and looked down at the sea of heads below. He raised his hand, signaling for everyone to be quiet.
The deck fell silent. Everyone looked up at him.
Jericho spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but every word was as clear as if it were engraved on a steel plate.
"Gentlemen, London has ordered us to surrender."
An uproar erupted on the deck. Some cursed, some lowered their heads, and some clenched their fists.
Jericho raised his hand to silence the commotion. Once everyone had quieted down, he continued:
"But I don't intend to carry out this order."
The deck erupted in chaos. Some froze, some gasped, some couldn't believe their ears. The chief of staff rushed forward, grabbed his arm, his voice trembling: "General! What did you say? This is treason!"
Jericho pushed him away, his gaze eerily calm.
"Treason?" He looked at the chief of staff, a slight smile playing on his lips. "My act of letting Royal Navy warships fall into enemy hands is treason."
He turned and continued speaking to the sailors below:
"Look—" he pointed to the eight capital ships and five cruisers in the distance, "They are the pride of the Royal Navy. They fought in the Battle of Jutland, in the Mediterranean escort missions, and in countless battles. They should not be sailing under someone else's flag."
The deck fell silent. Everyone looked at him and listened to what he had to say.
Jericho's voice suddenly became very soft, as if he were talking to himself.
"I order—all officers and men to disembark. One hour later, the fleet was scuttled."