1 January 1942 New Year's Eve
Midnight came and passed with no cheers, no fireworks, no celebrations. Just the distant, low thunder of artillery in the dark hills beyond Kampar. Nothing else moved. Even the jungle had fallen quiet, as if nature itself recoiled from the madness of men.
Nobody said anything at all. There were no toasts, no singing, no laughter. Just soldiers with hollow faces and shaking hands.
Everyone was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of the war. Tired of surviving.
The British trenches outside Kampar were soaked with mud and blood. The monsoon rains had turned the red earth to a pulpy mess, and shell craters pockmarked the fields like freshly dug graves. Crows circled above, drawn by the scent of death. The smell was everywhere—blood, sweat, rot, cordite.
The Japanese hadn't broken through—yet—but everyone knew they would try again soon. They always did. Every day they attacked, and every day they died. Then the next wave came. Then another. Always more.
The men of the British and Commonwealth lines had seen it firsthand. The Japanese weren't just fearless—they were suicidal. They charged machine gun nests like it meant nothing, eyes wild, screaming, strapped with grenades, waving bayonets like swords.
"Tenno Heika Banzai!" they screamed as they came.
It wasn't just a battle cry. It was the sound of something unholy. Something wrong.
They weren't men anymore. That's what the soldiers whispered in the trenches.
"They ain't men," one corporal muttered. "They're devils in boots."
"We're not fighting soldiers. We're fighting death itself."
British artillery had kept the lines from collapsing completely. The gunners did their work day and night, shells howling through the air and hammering the jungle where the Japanese advanced. The defenders had inflicted heavy casualties. Bodies littered the jungle trails. Trees were splintered, roots scorched. But it didn't stop them.
Too much killing had happened already. But it was never enough.
Now, morale was slipping. Fast.
By the end of the first hour of the new year, many soldiers weren't even cleaning their rifles anymore. Some sat in silence. Others prayed. A few stared at nothing, blinking slowly.
The war had taken more than lives.
It had taken their faith.
"Fuckin demon...."
...
Back in a broken house just behind the lines once a family's warm home, now abandoned and hollow Aman held Mei Lian close. Neither spoke. They listened to the occasional crack of gunfire, the distant groan of artillery, and the moans of the wounded that echoed faintly across the camp.
Carter hadn't sent anyone to find them.
Good.
He had bigger problems. The lines were collapsing slowly. The officers had their hands full. That gave Aman and Mei Lian a chance.
Aman took his sling bag the one Henry had carried before he died. He started stuffing it with whatever they had left: a broken canteen, some stale biscuits, a compass he wasn't sure worked, and a pocketknife. He slipped in the remaining bullets and Henry's old snub-nosed revolver.
Mei Lian found a torn military coat and a pair of boots from a dead scout nearby. The coat was oversized, but it kept her warm. She'd stitched up the sleeves and tied it with a rope around her waist.
They didn't speak. They moved with purpose.
The plan was simple.
Take what they could. Run while the chaos covered their escape.
They both knew the risks. But staying meant death. Carter was growing unstable, and if he found them again…
As the cold morning light slowly crept into the clouds, Aman looked at Mei Lian. "We leave tonight."
She nodded. "We'll need food. Water. And a new map. That old one Henry had… it's useless now."
Aman winced. She was right. The only usable map would be in the command tent. And that meant getting past the officers. Past Carter.
Still, he nodded.
"I'll get it."
....
Aman adjusted the strap on the sling bag as he stepped out into the cold, early morning air. Mei Lian stayed behind, back inside the abandoned house, changing into cleaner clothes they'd looted from another home down the road. Most of the homes here were empty the villagers had fled long before the shelling began.
Inside, Mei Lian looked at the dress Aman had helped her tailor from leftover fabric. He'd cut and pinned it to fit her better, though it still looked rough and patched.
"Why are you so small? I'm pretty sure I picked children's clothes," Aman had joked.
Mei Lian had smiled faintly at that, looking at herself in the mirror well, what was left of one. A cracked shard nailed to a wall.
Her smile faded. "Are you sure? About stealing that map?"
"It's risky. Especially with Carter. He's…"
"Losing his mind," Aman said plainly. He looked at her. "But don't worry. I'll come back. I promise."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Please be careful."
...
The command tent was near the center of the camp. Guards were posted nearby, but discipline was fraying. Injured soldiers wandered aimlessly. Others just sat, some crying, others staring into space. A few men were trying to burn garbage to make tea. Smoke curled weakly in the air.
Aman tried to move casually, blending in. Nobody paid much attention. He looked like any other young assistant or errand runner. His boots were muddy, his coat ragged, his eyes tired.
He got closer.
The command tent loomed ahead larger, canvas stretched tight, with a few guards nearby. Officers moved in and out quickly, shouting orders or barking into radios. It would be difficult to slip inside unnoticed.
Aman ducked behind a parked supply cart, waiting for the moment to move.
Then he heard it.
"Hello."
Aman froze. That voice
He turned. Carter was behind him, smiling.
Pale. Unblinking. Smiling.
"Looking for something?" Carter asked calmly.
Aman's breath caught. He tried to run.
Too late.
Carter's fist smashed into his temple. Darkness swallowed him instantly.
.....
Aman awoke with his hands tied behind his back, blood trickling from his nose. He was inside a makeshift supply tent. Lanterns flickered overhead.
Carter sat in front of him, wiping his hands on a bloodstained rag.
"You really thought you could run away?" Carter asked.
He sounded calm. Too calm.
Carter stood and paced.
"I'm still looking for that little Chinese girl. Mei Lian, wasn't it?" he said, voice low and cold.
"But first..…" He turned back to Aman.
"I'm very. Very. Pissed off."
He smiled again.
It wasn't a smile of humor. It was the smile of a man who had gone far past the border of sanity and hadn't noticed, or didn't care.