Bright Sword: The Flowers of War

Chapter 270: Shifting the blame
The wind gradually stopped.

The yellow dust cloud whipped up by countless trucks slowly settled and fell back to the earth, as if it had never existed.

The only sounds in the air were the thick, pungent smell of diesel exhaust and the heavy, labored breathing of tens of thousands of Japanese soldiers.

Machijiri Ryoki remained frozen in place, like a weathered stone statue.

The whip in his hand had long since fallen into the mud, but he was completely unaware of it.

His mind was currently engaged in an unprecedented internal struggle, more intense and dangerous than any battle before.

Chase?
The thought had barely surfaced when he extinguished it himself.

A grotesque image even flashed through his mind: his proud "Kumamoto Warriors," each with their tongues lolling out, were frantically pawing at the mud like a pack of chased idiots, while Chinese soldiers on the truck ahead were leisurely crossing their legs, smoking and throwing banana peels at them.

Chase my ass! Trying to chase four wheels on two legs?

This is something only a madman or a fool would do.

Moreover, who knows if that cunning Su Yaoyang has already dug a pit and set up cannons in some mountain hollow ahead, just waiting for our exhausted troops to run into it and then enjoy a good surprise attack.

A chill ran down Machijiri Ryoki's neck.

So...not to pursue?
This thought made him feel even more ashamed than defeat.

Not pursuing meant that he, the commander of the 6th Division of the Imperial Japanese Army, would just watch helplessly as the enemy swaggered away from him after suffering the heavy loss of the 13th Regiment, without daring to utter a single word.

He could almost see the contemptuous and mocking looks he would receive from his colleagues in the 3rd and 13th Divisions as they approached.

He could even imagine how the old guys in the military would talk about him after dinner: "Have you heard? Machijiri from the Kumamoto Division was scared out of his wits by the Chinese truck. He's like a stray dog, he doesn't even have the courage to chase after them."

Thinking of this, Ryoki Machijiri's face turned a deep purplish-red, and his blood rushed to his head. He felt as if the top of his head was about to be blown off by this nameless anger and shame.

To pursue it would be to invite humiliation; not to pursue it would be an unbearable disgrace.

He paced restlessly back and forth in the mud like a wild beast trapped in a cage. His shiny military boots made a "plop plop" sound as they stepped into the mud, splashing mud that dirtied his crisp military trousers, but he didn't care at all.

He felt he was in a dead end, and no matter what he chose, he would lose.

Just as he was about to be driven mad by this frenzied emotion, a thought, like a lightning bolt in the darkness, suddenly cleaved through his chaotic thoughts.

Wait... why should I make the decision myself?
Machijiri Ryoki suddenly stopped in his tracks, a sly yet relieved glint flashing in his bloodshot eyes.

At that moment, his brain, which was on the verge of short-circuiting from the heat of anger, suddenly burst forth with a brilliant idea that transcended time and shone with the wisdom of bureaucracy.

"Report this to your superiors!"

Once he understood the key point, he instantly felt much more relaxed.

He was no longer the unlucky guy who was being played, but an excellent commander who was conscientious and mindful of the overall situation.

"Report everything that happened here to the Eleventh Army Headquarters in its entirety, without missing a single word, and ask Commander-in-Chief for instructions on our next course of action!"

He gave orders to the communications officer beside him in a loud voice, full of feigned composure and authority.

The communications officer paused for a moment, but then snapped to attention: "Hai!"

Watching the communications soldier rush off to set up the radio, Machijiri Ryoki let out a long sigh of relief. He felt as if the mountain weighing on his heart had been lifted in an instant.

That's a brilliant move!

He was already calculating in his mind: to pass the buck to the Commander.

If the commander orders a pursuit, and we fail to catch up or fall into an ambush, the responsibility lies with the commander; I am merely faithfully carrying out orders.

If the commander orders not to pursue, then I will have a way out. It's not that I, Machijiri Ryoki, am incompetent, but that this is the order from my superiors.

No matter the outcome, I won't have to take the blame all by myself!
That's why it's said that the art of shifting blame is truly a stepping stone to human civilization, a universal talent that transcends eras, races, and industries.

At that moment, Ryoki Machijiri deeply grasped the essence of this art.

Wuhan, the headquarters of the Japanese 11th Army.

Unlike the muddy and stinking battlefields on the front lines, this place presented a scene of perfect order.

Staff officers, dressed in crisp, ironed uniforms, hurried through the corridors filled with maps, their boots striking the floor with a clear, rhythmic sound.

The air was filled with the mixed aromas of coffee, black tea, and cigarettes, creating an elegant and austere atmosphere that seemed completely out of place with the cruelty of war.

Lieutenant General Sonobe Kazuo, the newly appointed commander of the 11th Army who had been in office for less than three months, was sitting in his spacious office, enjoying a moment of peace.

He held a cup of freshly brewed Shizuoka Gyokuro tea in his hand. The emerald green tea rippled gently in the white porcelain cup, emitting a refreshing aroma.

He disliked the cigar smell left by that old man, Yasuji Okamura, so as soon as he took office, he opened all the windows in the office and replaced the curtains.

He needs to use his own scent to announce who the new master of this power center is.

"Your Excellency Commander!"

A communications officer broke the silence, strode into the office, and respectfully handed over a telegram that had just been received.

"Oh...is it from the Sixth Division?" Sonobe Kazuichiro put down his teacup, slowly took the telegram, and wore a hint of the composure and smile typical of someone in a superior position.

Because he subconsciously thought this should be a victory report. After all, several elite divisions were dispatched to besiege a Chinese army of less than 20,000 men. It would be too unreasonable if they still couldn't win.

However, when his gaze swept over the telegram, his gentle smile froze, then shattered like broken glass.

The telegram contained very simple information, even some absurdities.

In his telegram, Machijiri Ryoki described how the Shanxi militia, with its countless trucks, staged a spectacular retreat in front of him, and then... and then at the end of the telegram, he actually asked the Commander-in-Chief for "tactical guidance" on the question of "whether to pursue or not to pursue" in an extremely humble tone.

Sonobe Kazuro's eyes began to twitch uncontrollably.

The veins on his hand holding the teacup bulged, as if he wanted to crush the exquisite white porcelain cup into dust.

The air pressure in the office suddenly dropped to freezing point within a few seconds.

He is not a fool.

To stand out from countless generals and become the commander of the 11th Army, he was more astute than most.

Machijiri Ryoki's little abacus, which resembled a multiplication table, was already perfectly clear to him at the second glance he saw the telegram!
That bastard... he wasn't asking for instructions, he was shifting the blame.

Sonobe Kazuo almost broke his nose from anger.

A surge of anger shot from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, burning his vision until it went black.

Damn it, you were completely outmaneuvered by the Kumamoto Division, beaten like a dog, and disgraced the Kumamoto Division. Now you want to shift the blame onto me?

Are you taking advantage of the fact that Sonobe and Ichiro are newcomers and haven't led your bunch of arrogant and fierce soldiers before?

He could almost picture the cunning look on Machijiri Ryoki's face as he sent the message.

Sonobe Kazuro slammed his hand on the table, causing the tea in his teacup to splash out.

"That lowly peasant!"

He growled in a low voice, the sound seeming to be squeezed out from between his teeth, "If that old bastard Okamura Neiji were still here, would you, Machijiri Ryoki, dare to send this kind of telegram? Would you dare to make him take the blame?"
You wouldn't dare! You cowardly bully who preys on the weak!

You want me to take the blame? I'm not going to! Not only will I not take the blame, I'll heat this pot up until it's scalding hot, and then stuff it back into your own arms. Let's see what you do then.
The communications officer in the office trembled at the commander's sudden outburst of rage, lowering his head even further as if he wished he could turn into a floor tile on the spot.

Sonobe Kazuro's anger came quickly and went quickly.

After the extreme anger comes the chilling calculation.

He sat back down in his chair, his face regaining its composure, but his eyes became exceptionally cold, so cold that no one dared to look him in the eye.

He picked up a pen, scribbled a line on a sticky note in a flamboyant style, and handed it to the communications officer who was almost petrified.

"Return the telegram to the Sixth Division immediately." His voice was so flat that it betrayed no emotion.

……

On the front lines, on the muddy roads.

Machijiri Ryoki was anxiously awaiting a reply, while simultaneously feeling smug about his "wisdom."

He had already decided that as soon as the reply from headquarters arrived, he would execute any order perfectly and absolve himself of all responsibility.

"Report... A reply from headquarters!"

The communications soldier came running up, panting, and handed him a telegram.

Machijiri Ryoki was overjoyed and eagerly unfolded the telegram.

However, when he saw the extremely brief sentence on the telegram, the smug smile on his face instantly froze.

The telegram contained only one line:

"This matter was decided on the spot by the Sixth Division, which handled it independently."

These words were like a merciless slap across Machijiri Ryoki's face.

No, it was worse than a slap; it was like a kick to the gut, blasting all his fantasies and schemes back into his stomach and dislocating his internal organs.

The thin telegram paper, at that moment, felt as heavy as a thousand pounds, fluttering from his trembling hands like a butterfly with broken wings, helplessly falling into the mud at his feet.

Machijiri Ryoki was dumbfounded.

He felt like a student trying to be clever, throwing a difficult problem at the teacher, only to have the teacher just sneer, throw the paper back at him, and write four big words on it: "Find your own way."

The ball was not only kicked back, but it was also coated with a layer of deadly poison.

Sonobe Kazuo's move pinned him firmly against the wall, leaving him no room to maneuver.

To pursue or not to pursue? This crucial question had returned to his own hands. And this time, he had no excuses or way out.

(End of this chapter)