114: Chapter 111 Surrender

February 22, 1981, 5:00 PM, Basra city center.

When Lieutenant General Shangshale stepped out of the command center's basement, the sunlight was so blinding he could barely open his eyes.

He had spent a full thirty-six hours in the basement without sleep or washing his face, and his uniform was covered in dust and blood. The wound on his left shoulder had been simply bandaged, and the dressing was already soaked with dark red bloodstains.

"Let's go," he said to his adjutant.

The two of them walked through the Iraqi defensive perimeter. As the soldiers along the way saw their commander passing by, some stood up while others lowered their heads. No one spoke. Everyone knew what was about to happen.

At the edge of the perimeter was a low wall built of sandbags. Lieutenant General Shangshale climbed over the wall and stepped into no-man's-land—an open stretch of about three hundred meters between the two front lines.

Shell casings, broken bricks, and shattered utility poles were scattered everywhere. A destroyed T-72 Tank lay tilted by the roadside, its turret blown ten meters away, with black smoke still billowing from inside.

He walked the three-hundred-meter distance in five minutes.

Rajai was waiting for him at the Iranian position.

Rajai was twenty years younger than him, wearing a filthy set of camouflage fatigues with a pistol tucked into his belt, and his beard hadn't been shaved for at least a week. His gaze was calm, showing neither the smugness of a victor nor the pity for the defeated.

"Lieutenant General Shangshale?"

"Yes."

"Please come with me."

Rajai led Lieutenant General Shangshale into the Post Office Building. An office on the fifth floor had been temporarily converted into a negotiation room—one desk, two chairs, and a printed instrument of surrender lying on the table.

Lieutenant General Shangshale sat down, picked up the surrender document, and read through it.

The content was concise: all units belonging to the Iraqi Southern Military District were to lay down their arms unconditionally; all weapons and equipment were to be handed over to the Iranian side; and all officers and soldiers would become prisoners of war, treated according to the Geneva Convention.

"There is one point I want to confirm," Lieutenant General Shangshale said, "the treatment of the wounded."

"The wounded will be sent to the field hospital in Ahvaz," Rajai said. "Our medical conditions are much better than those in your basement."

Lieutenant General Shangshale was silent for a few seconds, then he picked up the pen on the table and signed the instrument of surrender.

After signing, he put the pen on the table and asked, "Who is your commander?"

"His Highness Reza Pahlavi."

"Where is he?"

"Ahvaz."

"Please pass on a message to him for me."

"Please, go ahead."

"Tell him—he fought a beautiful battle. From the Fao Peninsula to Basra, every step was beyond our expectations. If I had a commander like him, this war would not have ended this way."

Rajai did not respond, only nodding slightly.

6:00 PM, Basra city center.

The surrender began.

Twenty-five thousand Iraqi soldiers emerged from the defensive perimeter, forming long queues and moving along designated routes toward the Iranian assembly points. They laid down their guns, their ammunition, and their helmets, walking through the streets of Basra empty-handed.

The column stretched for three kilometers, extending from the command center building all the way to the highway on the west side of the city.

Rajai stood on the top floor of the Post Office Building, watching the stream of people.

"Twenty-five thousand men," he muttered to himself. "Including those captured earlier, it's nearly thirty thousand in total."

He picked up the handset. "Your Highness, the surrender is underway. It is expected that the full disarmament will be completed within two hours."

"Good," Reza's voice came through the handset. "Ensure the registration and oversight of the prisoners. No one is allowed to mistreat them. Prioritize the evacuation of the wounded."

"Understood. There's one more thing—Lieutenant General Shangshale asked me to pass on a message to you."

"What is it?"

"He said you fought a beautiful battle."

There was silence on the other end for two seconds.

"Tell him he's not bad either. It's just that his boss is incompetent."

8:00 PM, Ahvaz.

Reza held the first post-war meeting in the command center.

"Summary of the Battle of Basra," he said, standing in front of the map. "Started at 4:00 AM on February 20th and ended at 5:00 PM on February 22nd. A total of sixty-one hours."

"Fao Peninsula phase: six hours. Three thousand one hundred enemies eliminated, including four hundred and twenty killed and two thousand six hundred captured. Our side suffered ninety-eight deaths."

"Basra city center phase: fifty-five hours. Twenty-eight thousand enemies eliminated, including about three thousand killed and about twenty-five thousand captured. Our side suffered four hundred and twenty-one deaths and nine hundred and sixty-three wounded."

"Republican Guard ambush phase: twenty-eight T-72 Tanks and seventeen BMP-1 infantry fighting vehicles destroyed. About three hundred killed and one hundred and fifty captured. Our side suffered no deaths and eleven minor injuries."

"Total: thirty-one thousand five hundred enemies eliminated. Captured seventy-eight tanks, ninety-three armored vehicles, one hundred and twenty-six artillery pieces, and over four hundred various vehicles."

He paused for a moment.

"Our total death toll is five hundred and nineteen."

The operations room was silent for a few seconds. Five hundred and nineteen men for thirty-one thousand five hundred. An exchange ratio of sixty to one.

"This figure will spread across the world," Karimi said.

"Don't spread it," Reza said. "At least, not by us. Let the reporters find out for themselves."

9:00 PM, Tehran.

Bani-Sadr received the battle report for the Battle of Basra.

Sitting in the presidential office, he read it three times.

The first time, he didn't believe it. Taking Basra in sixty-one hours? Impossible.

The second time, he believed it. Because every figure in the report could be verified—the prisoner list, the list of captured items, and the casualty statistics.

The third time, he began to feel afraid.

He was the commander-in-chief of the Battle of Basra. Nominally, this was his victory. But the whole world knew that the person who truly commanded the battle was Reza Pahlavi.

He picked up the phone and called Montazeri.

"grand ayatollah," Bani-Sadr said, "Basra has been taken."

"I know," Montazeri said. "The Ayatollah already knows. He is very pleased."

"Is he pleased because of the victory, or because of Reza?"

Montazeri was silent for a while, then asked, "What are you worried about?"

"I'm worried," Bani-Sadr said, "that after this battle, Reza's prestige in Iran will surpass everyone's. Including the Ayatollah's."

"It won't surpass the Ayatollah," Montazeri said, "but it might surpass yours."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

February 23, 8:00 AM, Basra.

Reza flew from Ahvaz to Basra.

The helicopter he was on landed in a square in the center of Basra. Equipment left behind by the Iraqi army was everywhere—discarded rifles piled like small mountains, empty shell casings covering the ground, and several destroyed armored vehicles still smoldering.

Rajai met him in the square.

"Your Highness, Basra is fully under control. The last of the Iraqi stragglers have surrendered. Order in the city has basically been restored, and residents are starting to come out onto the streets."

"What about the running water?"

"The engineers are repairing the water plant. It's expected that the water supply can be restored this afternoon."

"And the electricity?"

"The power plant is severely damaged and will take at least a week to repair."

Reza nodded. He walked to the center of the square and looked around.

Most of the buildings in Basra were intact—the fighting had mainly taken place in the streets, and the buildings themselves had not suffered large-scale destruction. This was intentional on his part—he didn't want to bomb Basra into ruins; he wanted an intact city.

"Rajai," he said, "from now on, you are the temporary military administrator of Basra. Your task is not occupation, but governance."

"Governance?"

"Yes. Restore the supply of water, electricity, and gas. Open the markets so residents can buy food. Organize patrols to maintain public order. No harassing residents, no looting, and no retaliation. Anyone who violates discipline will be dealt with by military law."

"Understood."

"And one more thing—the Iraqi prisoners of war. Treat them well. Let them have enough to eat and drink, and prioritize medical treatment for the wounded. I want the world to see that we are not barbarians."