Bright Sword: The Flowers of War

Chapter 338: Roller Coaster Mood

The thick smoke that filled the highway slowly dissipated under the wind, revealing the road that should have been yellowish-brown and covered in dust—but now, the color of that road had been completely changed.

The once withered yellow soil was soaked in blood, turning into a deep dark red. The blood seeped into the dust, turning it into a sticky mud, reflecting the scattered limbs and tattered uniforms, resembling a river of blood soaked by slaughter.

The final wave of attacks by the Mustang fighter jets has been completed.

Minutes earlier, the last Mustang to fly low over the enemy dropped a massive AN-M41 cluster bomb. The heavy bomb, propelled by inertia, traced an elegant yet chilling parabola before disintegrating above the enemy's dense formation—more than a hundred palm-sized, silver-gray "butterfly" bullets with tiny fins scattered with a piercing whistle, like a swarm of steel bees exuding an aura of death, hurtling towards the ground.

The explosions sounded like a series of giant furnaces being ignited, "Boom! Boom! Boom!" in succession, tearing at the soldiers' eardrums and causing all the thatched huts along the roadside to collapse.

Clumps of gravel, clods of earth, and flesh flew into the air, then fell back down with the pull of gravity, leaving the ground covered in shocking stains.

This wasn't just the power of high explosions—the outer shells of those butterfly bombs also contained white phosphorus and viscous napalm. The white phosphorus burned in the air with an even more blinding light and a ghastly white smoke, and when it came into contact with the human body, it burned fiercely like a bone-deep infection.

The flames from burning napalm quickly climbed onto the hit corpses, mules, carts, and oil drums, hissing as they burned. The flames licked at everything around them in the wind, relentlessly expanding the fire.

This is a weapon that not only kills the enemy, but also completely engulfs them in fear and pain.

However, this terror has only just begun—because the fuses of the AN-M41 cluster munitions are randomly set; some explode instantly in the air, some explode upon impact, and many detonate suddenly several seconds, tens of seconds, or even minutes after landing.

To put it simply, even the workers who manufactured it didn't know exactly when the butterfly bomb they created would explode and kill someone.

Even though the roar of the Mustang's engines had long since faded into the distance, and the silver silhouette of the machine had become a bright spot on the horizon, the sudden explosions still struck like a death knell, relentlessly hammering at the nerves of the 27th Division soldiers who were already on the verge of collapse.

Everywhere, along the highways, in the ditches, and among the sparse trees lining the roads, huddled and cowering figures could be seen. Few people had stopped to witness the devastation of the air raid; no one dared to stand up.

Even the Japanese veterans who usually prided themselves on their bravery and were ruthless in the Nanjing Massacre were now pressing their hands tightly against their helmets, shrinking into the muddy ditches by the roadside, praying that the next bomb would not fall on their spot—they didn't even dare to look out, because they knew that the next second they might be torn apart by their own heads.

The wounded, their flesh torn off by the explosion, writhed in the blood and mud, uttering intermittent groans; while some soldiers, scorched by white phosphorus, were powerless to extinguish the flames on their bodies, and could only roll on the ground, turning into a pile of charred remains amidst screams and convulsions.

The entire 27th Division's ranks were shattered by the bombing—the chain of command was broken, and no one bothered to regroup and continue advancing.

Most of the remaining officers huddled in their damaged bunkers, gritting their teeth and refusing to show themselves, because every explosion meant the end of a life.

At this moment, they finally understood: these steel demons that descended from the sky were not prey they could hunt at will, but rather the incarnation of death.

A few minutes later, several brave medics crouched low and rushed into the still-smoke-filled area, carrying or dragging the surviving wounded to the roadside.

Although they tried their best to avoid the wreckage and flames, every now and then a "pop!" would suddenly trigger a delayed-detonation butterfly bomb, which would explode into mud and blood, and the sharp fragments would fall down like invisible scythes, cutting down both the rescuers and the rescued.

Some people didn't even have time to scream before they quietly collapsed into the scalding, sticky mud.

"How could this happen... How could this happen..."

Lieutenant General Masaharu Honma slowly and stiffly stood up from the bunker, his hands still braced against the pile of sharp, shattered rubble from the explosion.

His voice was already filled with uncontrollable confusion and trembling, and it was also a little hoarse.

The scene before him—a mixture of smoke, flames, wreckage, and blood—gave him the illusion that he was in an abyss, unable to see the sunlight.

The smoke was still burning, and the pungent smell of tar and blood was particularly strong.

The soil on the ground had long lost its original color, and the highway was littered with broken gun barrels, shattered helmets, and piles of unrecognizable corpses, as if death had once visited this place.

And this feeling... he knew it very well, this feeling... was called despair.

This is the 27th Division's second cycle of life and death.

This unit has been plagued by some kind of curse since last year.

Last time, they were decimated in the decisive battle with the Shanxi militia, losing more than half of their forces. They were forced to write a retreat telegram in blood and were ordered by headquarters to return to their homeland for rest and reorganization.

That was an immense humiliation, and it was the reason he had been ruminating over it for more than a year, vowing to avenge that humiliation a hundredfold.

For a full year, the division began a difficult period of rest and recuperation on its home soil... replenishing personnel, changing uniforms, and conducting repeated drills.

He even mentally rehearsed the script for revenge: to set foot on Chinese soil again, targeting the Shanxi militia as his first objective, and to crush the enemy who had brought shame upon the empire in the most brutal way.

However, reality slapped him in the face once again. As soon as they stepped onto the railway line in Shanxi, before the soldiers could even get off the train, they were met with a fierce attack from the newly formed but imposing "Shanxi Militia Flying Squadron".

The bomb rain was like a replay of a past nightmare... no... even more intense and precise.

His troops were blown to pieces in the instant they were still covered in train dust, and were forced to retreat in disarray to Datong to regroup.

That time, he didn't die, but his self-esteem was shattered.

After two months of recuperation, he finally managed to pull the 27th Division out of the ruins.

Just yesterday, he decisively defeated the 83rd Army of the Jin-Sui Army, leaving that army unable to even maintain its formation.

This battle made his chest surge with passion for the first time in a year. He thought that the sword of revenge belonging to the 27th Division had finally been honed to a bright shine and could begin to cut the shackles of accumulated resentment.

He was even excited about the next plan—to quickly advance towards Xinkou, join forces with the Fourth Division to form an encirclement, imprison the 129th Division of the Eighth Route Army and the 61st Army of the Jin-Sui Army, wipe them out in one fell swoop, and then turn around to besiege Niangziguan, erasing that name that had repeatedly stung him—Su Yaoyang—along with his men and territory, from the map.

This was not only a way to wipe away past humiliations, but also a declaration—a demonstration to the Empire, to all of China, and to that damned Shanxi militia: the 27th Division, the Imperial Army's ironclad force, is still here, and is not yet old.

But now, he wasn't looking at the besieged Chinese army, but at the main force of his own division, which had just embarked on the path of revenge only to have its backbone broken once again. Wounded soldiers still unable to climb out of the mud ditch, officers lying in disarray by the roadside, supply wagons reduced to charred skeletons, sergeants sitting blankly beside piles of corpses... all the morale that had just been built up, all the beliefs that had just been rebuilt, crumbled to pieces in just a few tens of minutes of air raid.

He finally realized... that Shanxi militia was no longer the rabble of the Boxer Rebellion in his memory, but a predator that knew how to choose the right time to hunt and how to reap the rewards repeatedly.

"Why did this happen... why did this happen... where are our army aviation planes...?"

Masaharu Honma seemed to have all his strength drained away. He stood in the middle of the road, letting the wind whip up ash and scraps of paper from the bombs and splatter them onto his military uniform.

His boots were still on the damp, bloody mud, the sticky, warm sensation seeping into his bones, creating an extremely uncomfortable emptiness in his mind.

A series of hurried footsteps followed by the thud of heavy objects falling into the mud came from nearby. Chief of Staff Colonel Harada Yoshikazu came running over, panting heavily.

"Your Excellency, Division Commander!"

His eyebrows were covered in mud, and blood was still dripping from his forehead, clearly from the fall and injury he sustained in the blast wave.

After he stopped, he looked at Honma Masaharu, who was standing there dumbfounded, his forehead twitched slightly, and he couldn't help but ask in a low voice, "Should we...should we continue?"

Honma slightly withdrew his gaze, pondering for a few seconds.

In the end, he gritted his teeth, his voice filled with determination, and uttered two words: "Of course!"

"Give me the casualty statistics report in half an hour."

He extended two fingers and poked Harada hard in the chest, as if to nail the order into the man's bones, "Immediately order the troops to spread out and continue advancing."

We must get to Xinkou as quickly as possible... There can be no delays!

"Hai!" The sharp pain in his chest made Harada Yoshikazu tremble slightly, and he bowed his head in greeting.

But he felt increasingly panicked. As the chief of staff, he knew very well that the 27th Division could not withstand even one more attack of the same scale.

Just as he turned to relay the order, Masaharu Honma called out to him in a low voice, "Oh, right..."

Honma Masaharu gritted his teeth and said, "Immediately send a telegram to Commander Iwamatsu Yoshio, reporting in detail the situation of our air raid by the Shanxi militia and the casualties... and request that the Army Air Force immediately send fighter jets to escort us. Remember..." He bit his lip hard, "The 27th Division cannot afford any more losses!"

"Hai!"

Harada Yoshikazu nodded emphatically, bowed deeply, and turned to leave, hurrying along the road covered in scorched earth and bloodstains towards the location of the temporary communications car.

Behind Honma, the red-hot steel plates of the armored vehicle hissed in the cold wind. Several crows, which had been scattered in fear but slowly returned, began to fly low and circle over the pile of corpses by the roadside, emitting low and greedy cries.

Inside the battle map room of Yan Xishan's mansion in Jinyang City, a huge battle map of Shanxi hanging on the wall was covered with densely packed small flags and signs. Red represented friendly forces, and blue represented Japanese forces. At a glance, the signs for the Xinkou direction were already close together, like two venomous snakes on the map that could bite each other's throats at any moment.

Yan Xishan sat in a thick armchair painted with cloud and dragon patterns, the wolf-hair brush in his hand having been twirled countless times.

His mood was like a rollercoaster, going up and down.

Yesterday, when he learned that the 83rd Army had been defeated by the Japanese 27th Division in a short period of time, and that even the army commander was missing, he almost couldn't catch his breath.

In particular, according to reports from below, the Japanese 27th Division was advancing at an astonishing speed, heading straight for Xinkou, and was being supported by the 4th Division. Their objective was very likely to encircle the 129th Division of the Eighth Route Army and its own 61st Army.

Once the situation escalates, not only will the entire frontline defenses collapse, but the gateway to northern Shanxi will be wide open, and even Taiyuan will be lost.

This forced him to reluctantly send an urgent telegram to Su Yaoyang, not only lowering his tone in his words but also requesting that the Shanxi militia intervene to restrain the advance of the 27th Division.

However, the changes came much faster than he had anticipated.

Around noon, while he was reviewing official documents, he saw a staff officer rushing in to report: "Commander Yan... the Shanxi militia's air squadron just launched a surprise attack on the Japanese 27th Division... the 27th Division suffered heavy casualties, and its marching speed has suddenly slowed down."

In that instant, it was as if someone had suddenly lifted a huge rock off my chest, and even breathing became easier.

Yan Xishan's eyes, which had been half-closed, suddenly brightened.

After a moment of relief, he reacted just as quickly—knowing that the opportunity was fleeting. He immediately urged his 1st Cavalry Corps of Jin-Sui to advance at full speed toward Xinkou, determined to take advantage of the 27th Division's setbacks, low morale, and slowed progress to penetrate the battlefield, stabilize the defenses, and even launch a counterattack.

Immediately, he summoned Yang Aiyuan, the deputy commander of the Second War Zone, and said, "Xingru, the current situation is tense, and the Xinkou battlefield is in danger of collapsing at any time. I plan to have you go to Xinkou personally to make immediate contact with the deputy chief of staff of the Eighth Route Army and work together to deal with the current crisis."

Although he appeared to be asking a question, his tone carried an undeniable certainty.

Yang Aiyuan knew that in this situation, the so-called "what do you think?" was just a formality, and even if he wanted to back down, there was nowhere to back down.

"Yes, I'll set off immediately!" Yang Aiyuan replied with a straight back and a crisp tone.

Yan Xishan nodded, then turned a telegram rack on the table toward himself, picked up a brush, dipped it in ink, and drafted an urgent telegram.

In this telegram, Yan Xishan praised Su Yaoyang and the Shanxi militia flying squadron under his command, which the Jin army considered a "surprise force"... He praised their surprise attack for being precise, brave, decisive, and brilliant, saying that it was "a great encouragement to the spirit and hope of the Jin-Sui Army".

However, in the last few lines, the author shifts focus, requesting Su Yaoyang's flight squadron to continue attacking and harassing the 27th Division, doing everything possible to slow its advance and buy precious time for reinforcements from the Jin-Sui and Eighth Route Army.

After finishing writing, he put the wolf-hair brush back into the pen holder, raised his hand and waved it. The adjutant next to him immediately took the telegram and rushed to the military radio room next door.

Yan Xishan's gaze returned to the map as he pondered. He knew very well that in order to keep the Japanese army firmly in check, he still needed the support of the Shanxi militia.

(End of this chapter)