pappabearbooks Chapter 679 "Fight until the British surrender," he said, "or until we are all dead.&
Chapter 679 "Fight until the British surrender," he said, "or until we are all dead.&
The lobby was littered with corpses lying haphazardly. There were British soldiers, Japanese soldiers, and several civilians in civilian clothes, huddled in a corner, their bodies riddled with bullet holes. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood, so strong it made one want to vomit.
A British soldier leaned out from around the corner of the stairs, firing his pistol downwards. The veteran in front raised his rifle and pulled the trigger—it jammed. The British soldier's gun was already pointed at him.
Tanaka Ichiro didn't know how he did it.
He raised his gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
The butt of the gun slammed into his shoulder, jolting him back a step.
The British soldier tumbled down the stairs, fell into a pool of blood, twitched twice, and then remained still.
Tanaka Ichiro stood there, staring at the corpse. It was a young man with blond hair and blue eyes, which were still open, staring blankly at the ceiling. There was a bullet hole in his chest, from which blood was gushing out.
"What are you standing there for? Go upstairs!" The veteran's shout pulled him back to reality.
He mechanically moved his legs, rushing upwards.
Every step of the stairwell was littered with corpses, every corner echoed with gunshots, and enemies might lurk behind every door. He didn't know how many shots he fired, how many people he killed; he only knew the mechanical process of loading, aiming, firing, loading, aiming, firing…
When he finally reached the third floor, he found himself covered in blood. He didn't know if it was from the enemy, his comrades, or himself.
Brigadier General Robert Gurney stood on the roof of a three-story building, observing the surrounding streets through binoculars.
His command post was located here—the tallest building in downtown Kuala Lumpur, formerly a bank office building. From here, one could overlook most of the city, see the houses destroyed by artillery fire, the corpses lying scattered in the streets, and the Japanese soldiers moving like ants among the ruins.
"General," the adjutant ran up, panting, "the Third Battalion of the Eastern District reports that they are surrounded and request reinforcements."
Brigadier General Gurney did not turn around.
"No reinforcements."
The adjutant paused for a moment, opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing, turned and went downstairs.
Gurney will continue to watch those streets.
Three days ago, he had 45,000 men under his command: two British Indian divisions, an Australian brigade, and local Malayan colonial troops. The fortifications had been under construction for half a month, and ammunition reserves were plentiful; he had thought he could hold out for at least a month.
Now, the East District has been lost, the North District is in fierce fighting, the South District is blocked by Japanese artillery fire, and the troops in the West District are retreating towards the city center.
The Japanese attacks never stopped for a moment.
He saw a dozen or so Japanese soldiers advancing down a street in the distance. They moved close to the wall, in groups of three, taking turns providing cover. One soldier would rush past a street corner, immediately crouch down, raise his gun, and aim; the other two would quickly follow, passing him, and continue forward. Their coordination was as practiced as if they had rehearsed it a thousand times.
British machine guns swept across the second-floor windows, pinning them down. But soon, a mortar shell landed precisely on that window, silencing the machine guns. The Japanese soldiers seized the opportunity to rush across the street and disappear into another pile of ruins.
Brigadier General Gurney lowered his binoculars.
He recalled London three years earlier, and the officer from the General Staff patting him on the shoulder and saying, "Robert, Malaya is the jewel in the crown of Britain; its defenses are impregnable."
As solid as a rock.
He gave a wry smile.
A burst of gunfire erupted from downstairs, growing ever closer. The adjutant ran up again, this time his face deathly pale.
"General, the Japanese invaders are attacking downstairs! We have to retreat!"
Brigadier General Gurney looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.
"You can leave now."
The adjutant was stunned.
"General..."
"I am the commander," Brigadier General Gurney interrupted him. "This is my position. I will stay until the very end."
The adjutant's eyes reddened. He saluted, turned, and rushed downstairs.
Brigadier General Gurney raised his binoculars again, watching the approaching Japanese soldiers. He could now make out their faces—exhausted, filthy, but with something in their eyes that terrified him.
That kind of thing is called madness.
By the third day of the street fighting, there were no rules left to follow.
Tanaka Ichiro leaned against a broken wall, panting heavily. His rifle lay rolled to one side, its barrel so hot it could fry an egg. For three days, he hadn't slept a wink or eaten a hot meal. When thirsty, he drank water from his military canteen—water tainted with the smell of blood—but he didn't care.
The old soldier with a scar on his face was squatting nearby. He had been shot in the left arm, which was haphazardly bandaged, and blood was still seeping out. But he was still smoking, slowly and carefully, inhaling each puff deeply into his lungs.
"Kid," the veteran suddenly spoke, "how many have you killed?"
Tanaka Ichiro shook his head.
He didn't know. He killed a few when he stormed the building on the first day, a few more in the street fighting later, and then he stopped counting. Counting was useless; it would only give him nightmares.
The old soldier smiled. The smile pulled at the scars on his face, making him look particularly ferocious.
"It's good not to count. If you count, you won't be able to sleep."
Gunfire erupted again in the distance. Intensive, growing ever closer.
Tanaka Ichiro grabbed his gun and peeked out. Across the street, a dozen or so British soldiers were retreating. They ran and fired back, bullets thudding against the wall. More than twenty Japanese soldiers chased after them, shouting as they went, like a pack of crazed beasts.
A British soldier was shot in the leg and fell to the ground. He struggled to get up, but the pursuers were already upon him. Bayonets plunged into his back, and he screamed before lying motionless on the ground.
Tanaka Ichiro watched that scene without feeling anything.
Three days ago, he would have been scared, nauseous, and want to vomit. But now, he just watches, like watching a movie from afar.
"Let's go." The veteran stood up, picked up his gun, and said, "It's our turn."
Yamada Ichisa leaned against the back of a wrecked truck, counting the remaining people.
The First Regiment has 321 men remaining.
There were 2,500 men before the attack.
He looked at the soldiers—some leaned against the wall in a daze, some dozed off with their guns, some were carving something on the wall with their bayonets, and some were bandaging their wounds, their hands smeared with blood. No one spoke, no one cried, they just silently went about their business.
A young soldier walked over and handed him a rice ball.
"Colonel, you haven't eaten for three days."
Yamada Ichisuke took the rice ball and took a bite. The rice was hard and had a burnt taste, but he chewed it slowly and carefully.
The soldier didn't leave; he stood there, seemingly wanting to say something but holding back.
Yamada Ichisuke looked at him and said, "Speak your mind."
The soldier lowered his head and whispered, "Colonel, how much longer...are we going to fight?"
Yamada Kazusa remained silent for a few seconds.
He looked at the still-burning buildings in the distance, at the corpses lying scattered about, and at the gray figures moving through the ruins.
"Fight until the British surrender," he said, "or until we are all dead."