Bright Sword: The Flowers of War

Chapter 339 A Touch of Coldness

Outside Niangziguan Pass, inside the temporary command post of the Shanxi militia, a corner of the thick linen curtain was lifted by a strong wind, bringing in a bit of cool air from the valley, and the paperweight pressing on the battle map trembled slightly.

Pi Ruoyu pushed open the door and came in, his boots still covered in yellow dust from outside.

He held a recently opened telegram with creases on the corners and handed it to his superior's desk: "Sir, this is an urgent telegram just sent by Commander Yan from Taiyuan."

Su Yaoyang took the paper, glanced at it, and snorted: "This Yan Laoxi... he still can't change his stingy nature of praising people to the heavens when he needs them, and throwing them aside like rags when he doesn't."

Pi Ruoyu raised his hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose, his expression somewhat helpless: "This isn't the first time you've dealt with him. If one day he's so eager to help us in our time of need, then we should really think twice and see if there's something fishy going on."

Upon hearing this, Su Yaoyang couldn't help but chuckle softly, his voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm towards this "old hand": "That's true."

He bent down again, laid the telegram flat on the map table in front of him, and ran his finger along the ink marks once more. At the end of the telegram was Yan Xishan's tactful plea—that the air squadron continue its operations to put pressure on the 27th Division and slow their march.

What attracted more attention in Su Yaoyang's eyes was the air force battle results briefing attached to the telegram.

The assessment brought back by the aerial reconnaissance plane brought a hint of a smile to his otherwise calm eyes... The results of this bombing had truly exceeded his expectations.

The 27th Division suffered at least 3,000 casualties in this bombing, and this is a preliminary count; the missing personnel have not yet been fully accounted for.

The loss of supplies was even more staggering. More than three or four hundred cars were destroyed or burned to ashes, which meant that their supply transport and mechanized mobility were almost crippled.

Thousands of mules and horses lay dead by the roadside and in the woods, some with twisted limbs and others with charred skin still smoking.

It's important to understand that those animals are not only the traction source, but also the key to their mobility in this mountainous environment.

Su Yaoyang leaned down and lightly tapped the blue 27th Division insignia on the map with his knuckles, his eyes narrowing slightly.

At this rate of attack, if another air raid of the same scale were to occur, the 27th Division would be completely paralyzed on the roads north of Xinkou, even if it were not annihilated. At that point, even retreat would be a luxury, and it would be forced to become prey to be slaughtered at will.

Northwest of Xinkou, the makeshift forward command post of the Eighth Route Army was completely covered by a large area of ​​yellowish-brown camouflage netting. The corners of the netting were fixed to several low-lying locust trees with hemp rope, making it look like an inconspicuous mixed forest.

Through the gaps in the hemp leaves and strips of cloth, one could vaguely see the muddy path that had been crushed inside, as well as the tarpaulin shelters used in the battlefield.

The deputy chief of staff stood behind the foremost sand and gravel bunker, wearing a cotton military uniform that had been worn white by the wind and sand. The fine lines on his forehead looked particularly taut today.

His usual smiling and calm demeanor was now gone, his lips pressed tightly together, his gaze fixed on the Xinkou North Entrance area several kilometers away through his binoculars.

There, the ground was filled with smoke and dust, and the wreckage of abandoned Japanese vehicles and roads riddled with craters from artillery fire could be vaguely seen.

Several staff officers followed behind him, their muddy feet making a slight sticky sound as they stepped on the loose soil, but no one spoke.

A barely perceptible layer of gray hung over everyone's faces, because no matter how much the news was embellished, it couldn't hide the enormous unpredictability of the battle situation over the past two days:
The 129th Division of the Eighth Route Army and the 61st Army of the Jin-Sui Army had launched a fierce attack on the Japanese 4th Division in the Xinkou area. After a week of attacks, they had already captured a lot of Japanese positions in the Xinkou area and were steadily advancing.

But yesterday evening, bad news suddenly came: the 83rd Army of the Jin-Sui Army had its defenses breached by the 27th Division outside Yanmen Pass and was forced to retreat in a complete rout.

This gap allowed the 27th Division to break free from the frontal blockade and advance rapidly southwest along the mountain road, closing in on their right flank and rear in half a day.

If the 27th Division were to outflank them and cut off their roads, while the 4th Division were to advance from the southeast, the defensive positions of the 129th Division and the 61st Army would become an encirclement. "No way to escape" would not be an exaggeration, but rather a scene that could turn into a mountain of corpses and a sea of ​​blood within a single day.

At a meeting where the crisis was looming, some staff officers suggested a westward retreat overnight to preserve the main force.

However, the motion was rejected by the deputy chief of staff as soon as it was proposed. If they retreated at this time, not only would the enemy pursue them closely, but the 4th Division on the front would also immediately notice the gap and move forward to entangle them.

That was not a retreat to preserve strength, but a rout caught in a pincer attack.

Fortunately, the situation took a turn for the better this morning.

News came from headquarters that the Shanxi militia had dispatched two air squadrons to launch a fierce air raid on the 27th Division, which was on the march, using cluster bombs and incendiary bombs. Countless cluster bombs and high-explosive bombs were directly thrown at the 27th Division's marching column.

This bombing not only caused thousands of casualties to the 27th Division, but also burned hundreds of cars, supply wagons, and mules to the ground, cutting off the vital supply lines that the Japanese army relied on for its advance in an instant.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief upon receiving the news.

Better news also came: Yan Xishan had mobilized the 1st Cavalry Army of Jin-Sui to march north overnight, intending to meet them at the northern flank of Xinkou and jointly contain the 27th Division.

But the deputy chief of staff knew that these relief measures were only temporary. His military instincts told him that he could not place all his hopes on a friendly force that was not on his side.

The Jin-Sui Army was an allied force, but not a directly subordinate unit.

Before reinforcements arrive, everything is hypothetical; once reinforcements arrive, will they necessarily be able to fully commit to the battle?
Anyone who experienced the cooperation between the Kuomintang and the Communist Party knows the answer to this concern.

The Jin-Sui Army's procrastination, indecisiveness, and hesitation are too similar to the Guan-Ning Iron Cavalry of the late Ming Dynasty, who were notorious for betraying their allies. How stupid must he have been to entrust his fate to them?

On the Eighth Route Army's front-line positions south of Xinkou, the autumn wind carried the smell of gunpowder smoke and damp earth, mixed with the lingering smell of gunpowder, and poured into the sandbags in front of the Deputy Chief of Staff.

He put away his binoculars, his brow still furrowed.

The 4th Division's fire suppression on the front line was relentless, and our own positions were almost constantly under fire throughout the night.

After a major battle, his nerves were stretched to the limit. The main force of the 129th Division was currently engaged in supplying the 4th Division. Not to mention withdrawing troops to defend, even the reserve force to replace the wounded at the front was stretched thin.

Even though he understood the risks behind him, the reality was that there were no troops available to send as a "backup plan".

He remained silent for a long time before walking to the field communications station buried in the sand. He lifted the heavy dustproof tarpaulin, bent down, and whispered to the radio operator, "Send a signal to headquarters."

Soon, a telegram requesting help was sent out.

Calling for reinforcements... it's not shameful, the deputy chief of staff thought to himself with a self-deprecating smile.

After sending the telegram, he returned to the position, his dust-covered military boots treading the edge of the trench, staring blankly at the Japanese positions on the opposite side. A sense of oppression churned within him. The 4th Division, rumored to be "cowards," showed no sign of weakness.

With precise artillery deployment and decisive infantry advances, every engagement resulted in a heavy price being paid by their own side.

In fact, he was not the only one who shared this doubt and astonishment.

The trenches of the Independent Regiment on the western flank of Xinkou.

Li Yunlong plopped down in the trench that was shaking from the artillery fire, took off his hat and threw it aside, his face covered in a mixture of dust and sweat, leaving streaks of mud: "Old Zhao, which bastard farted earlier, saying that the Fourth Division was a cowardly unit reorganized from Osaka merchants?"
Look at the casualties our regiment has suffered these past few days, it's almost the equivalent of a whole battalion!
If this keeps up, it won't be long before I'm all alone!

Zhao Gang was bending over, inspecting the trenches from inside the bunker. His face was equally grim as he sneered, "Old Li, what the hell are you yelling at me for? I'm not the commander of the Fourth Division. Did I order the Fourth Division to counterattack?"

He looked up to meet Li Yunlong's fiery gaze, his own eyes equally displeased: "Besides, pinning your hopes on the enemy's weakness is the stupidest thing ever! You're a veteran, do you expect me to teach you all the basic military knowledge again?"

Above the trench, the heavy machine guns of the 4th Division once again spat out dazzling tongues of fire, bullets whistling overhead and striking the mud wall, causing clods of earth and stone to fall.

The flash of light from the cannon muzzle on the east side of the ditch was like lightning. Li Yunlong gritted his teeth, grabbed hard from the ammunition box, and slammed a fresh magazine of bullets into the magazine of his Mauser pistol.

Tens of thousands of Chinese and Japanese troops, like ants, huddled in trenches, exchanging fire in the dead of daylight. The blazing sun overhead relentlessly radiated heat, further intensifying the battle.

Mengxian Airport is like a giant steel baking pan radiating heat. The scorching sun mercilessly bakes the entire tarmac until it turns white, and the heat distorts the air on the runway.

The air was filled with the smells of gasoline, lubricating oil, hot metal, and sun-dried grass, permeating every breath.

On the tarmac, rows of P-51 Mustang fighters and SBD dive bombers stood silently, their fuselages gleaming silver, as if every skin was so hot you could fry an egg on it.

Bombs gleamed with a cold metallic light, hanging from the wings, and sharp sunlight occasionally reflected off the propeller blades, making it too dangerous to look directly at.

Around the runway are rows of huge, grass-green military tents.

However, the four walls had long been demolished and replaced with a simple shed that allowed ventilation from all sides, so that the heat waves at least had a channel to flow.

Even so, the pilots inside the tent were still as hot as a group of dying cats, their bodies soaked with sweat.

A pilot with a buzz cut and a broad chest gulped down a canister of cold water, wiped his sweat-drenched chin, and cursed, "Damn it, is this weather even fit for a human?"

A few laughs and curses erupted from inside the tent, but no one bothered to move.

Most of the pilots had long since taken off their heavy flight suits, wearing only vests or even shirtless, their skin tanned a wheatish color, and lay panting on thin cots.

Leaning casually against the foot of the bed is not an M1911A1 pistol, but the increasingly popular M1 carbine. This thing is 904 mm long and weighs only 2.36 kg unloaded (without magazine). With a wooden grip and a 15 or 30-round magazine, it can immediately suppress enemy soldiers at close range, whether on board or after landing. Since it was adopted by the Air Force, it has become a favorite of pilots.

As they lazily rolled over in the shadows of the tent, sunlight swept across the oily sheen of the gunstocks beneath the bed, making the metal catches gleam.

Some people covered their heads with half-dry towels, leaving their noses and mouths exposed to breathe, their bodies exuding a mixture of hot, metallic smells and sweat.

But once on the runway, it was a completely different scene.

The ground crew were like a group of busy worker ants on the scorching tarmac, bending over and shuttling between the silver-gray fuselage and landing gear under the blazing sun.

Someone crouched beside the nose of the aircraft, prying open the engine access cover. The moment his gloves touched the engine casing, they felt a scorching heat. He dared not slacken his pace for a moment—then he added coolant, carefully pouring it in with a copper funnel, listening intently to each gurgling sound. Another ground crew member, carrying a toolbox, reached under the wing to inspect the aileron linkage and loaded 12.7mm ammunition belts into the machine gun. As he loaded, sweat trickled down his hairline and cheeks, dripping onto the scalding metal cartridge cases, instantly evaporating into mist.

The green military shirt, soaked through in the sun, clung to his back, and a gust of wind would immediately leave large patches of white salt stains. This cycle had repeated countless times from morning to noon.

The towels on their foreheads were already soaked, and the shoulder straps had rubbed their skin red, but no one complained of being tired. Everyone knew that once the commander gave the order, these Mustangs and dive bombers in the airfield would take off to meet the enemy.

In the shadow of the command post in the distance, Cheng Rufeng, wearing a flight cap and holding a half-lit cigarette between his fingers, quietly watched the busy figures, the sunlight casting a thin layer of gold on his profile.

He knew that this sweltering afternoon was the only brief and peaceful day before the impending second round of air raids.

Outside the combat tent on the south side of the airport, Song Shaojie pushed open the canvas door and was immediately met with an overwhelming heat wave.

The intense sunlight forced him to squint, and his nostrils filled with air that smelled of gasoline, engine oil, and the scorching heat of the runway.

His back was soaked as if it were a wet cloth that had just been pulled out of the water, but the chill in his chest just wouldn't go away.

It's not because the weather isn't hot enough, but because the shadow in my heart is gradually expanding.

Yesterday, he and Lu Guangbiao led their flight squadron out to unleash a hail of incendiary bombs and machine gun fire on the 27th Division's marching column.

It was a massive, predictable, massacre-style air raid. The Japanese 27th Division was bombed to pieces, its vehicles burned into flames, and the rising black smoke condensed into a thick cloud in the sky above the battlefield, so thick that even the sunlight could not penetrate it.

That time, the Japanese ground troops were completely powerless to fight back, except for their hasty evacuation.

During the final salvo of the dive, Song Shaojie even caught a clear glimpse of the Japanese soldiers' comical, chaotic figures and their terrified, disdainful looks.

However, before the warmth of all this had even dissipated, the intelligence delivered this morning was like a bucket of cold water being poured over our heads.

The reconnaissance plane confirmed that the 27th Division had regrouped and resumed operations. What made him even more nervous was that the Japanese had provided air cover for it, with Japanese Army Air Force fighters and reconnaissance planes beginning to patrol over its airspace.

This means that if they were to carry out another bombing mission, the enemy would not be as easily slaughtered as they were yesterday. Instead, they would be met with a Zero fighter squadron that was well-rested, had plenty of fuel, and had its chambers full of ammunition.

Song Shaojie thought of the Zero's rumored abnormal maneuverability radius, sharp climb rate, and their cruelty towards downed enemy pilots. His heart skipped a beat at that moment, and he could even clearly feel his blood, carrying adrenaline, roaring deep in his eardrums.

He looked up at the boundless, blazing white sky, swallowed hard, and felt a chill even in the air he inhaled.

(End of this chapter)