Bright Sword: The Flowers of War

Chapter 341 Tada Shun Arrives

The heatwave at high altitude had already penetrated the thin metal skin of the fighter jet, turning it into a veritable oven, making one's head throb.

Song Shaojie's hand gripping the joystick was white and soft from being soaked in sweat. Every time he made a slight adjustment to the joystick, his skin would sting slightly as it rubbed against the wet metal and canvas.

I could faintly hear Lu Guangbiao's loud voice: "Try to fly east!"

His P-51 had already cut diagonally to his left wing, its silver-white wings gleaming dazzlingly in the sunlight.

Lu Guangbiao also pushed open the cockpit canopy, his flight cap billowing slightly in the gale. His entire upper body leaned slightly outward, and the muscles in his neck were clearly bulging from the high-intensity piloting.

The further east they fly, the closer they will get to our ground forces' defense zone; this is their only way out.

Song Shaojie reached out with difficulty and pushed open the cockpit canopy above his head.

Suddenly, a howling wind rushed in, carrying with it a burnt metallic smell.

He pushed the sliding cover to its maximum position to ensure that the aircraft could be dismantled immediately should it need to be abandoned.

At this moment, his gaze followed the direction Lu Guangbiao pointed out. The sounds of aerial combat in the sky had gradually faded into the distance behind him, and all that remained in his ears was the heavy panting of engines.

After flying for about ten kilometers, the power control stick on the right side suddenly emitted a few muffled gasps along with a slight shaking of the fuselage, "Puff... puff... thump thump," which were the dying signals emitted by the engine cylinders due to a mixture of high temperature and damage.

Immediately afterwards, the propeller's rotation speed dropped rapidly, as if it were being choked by an invisible hand, and finally came to a standstill in a static cross shape, with the sound of wind cutting becoming the only melody.

Song Shaojie gritted his teeth, realizing that the gliding distance would be too far to reach the ground troops at the target location.

So he slammed on the rudder, trying to steer the Mustang fighter jet so that the cockpit was pointing downwards, and then decisively pulled the ejection release lever under the seat.

With a "click," the latches below the cockpit released, and he was forcefully pulled from his seat by the gust of wind. The rush of cold air and the sensation of high-speed fall made his stomach churn. The parachute pack on his back exploded the next moment, and the white parachute supported his body, stabilizing his descent speed. This process was a few seconds smoother than he had anticipated.

Dozens of seconds later, a bright light flashed on the mountainside two kilometers away, and his Mustang fighter jet, number 0567, crashed head-on into a bare rocky cliff.

"boom!"

The fuel, along with the remaining machine gun ammunition, triggered a series of explosions. The shockwaves shook his parachute violently in mid-air, and the flames illuminated the entire hillside.

The moment he landed, his knees jolted violently, and the earthy smell, along with the resilient scent of grass roots, rushed into his nostrils.

He rolled over and lay down on the dewy moss. Before his heart could calm down, he felt a sharp, needle-like pain being pulled in his left thigh.

Looking down, I could see a seven or eight-centimeter gash on my left leg under the flight suit, with blood seeping out of my pants, the color quickly changing from dark red to dark red.

He helped himself to his seat, pulling open his first-aid kit. He took out a bottle of medical alcohol, and the moment he placed the bottle opening against the wound, a burning pain shot through his nerves like an electric shock.

Song Shaojie couldn't help but gasp, his teeth clenched so tightly that the lines of his jaw turned a bluish-black from the force.

After the wound was disinfected, he pulled out a triangular bandage. His movements were quick but stiff. He wrapped the bandage around his leg three times and tied a half-tie to secure it.

Although the bandage was simple, it reduced the risk of continued bleeding.

Then, he half-squatted down and used dry grass and stones to scrape and mix the bloodstains with the shallow crater left by the impact, covering them up. He also used branches to sweep away the footprints leading down the mountain. Throughout his movements, he kept a close eye on his surroundings to prevent enemy aircraft from reconnaissance or Japanese patrols from getting close.

After doing all this, he looked up and gazed eastward.

That was his way home and his safety line. Gritting his teeth, he picked up his rifle and disappeared into the shadows of the low pine forest, beginning a silent movement along the ridge.

With each step, he could feel the burning sensation pulling at the wound on his thigh, but he suppressed his breathing, not giving any chance to the enemy-occupied territory to make a sound.

The mountain breeze swept through the hills, carrying a cool, dusty scent.

Song Shaojie moved eastward alone along a muddy path trodden by wild deer.

A few crows circled overhead, occasionally cawing, adding to the chilling stillness of the desolate wilderness. The withered leaves and pebbles under his feet crunched softly on the soles of his boots, each step a reminder that he was utterly alone, without any wingman cover or radio communication.

He lowered his arms, his palm tightly gripping the M1911A1 pistol.

The gun barrel gleamed with a dull blue steel sheen in the sunlight, and the wood grain of the grip was damp and even a little slippery from the sweat on my palms.

He brandished the gun. This weapon, which should have brought him a sense of security, made him feel extremely uneasy at this moment. If he were to run into a Japanese patrol, this level of firepower would barely be enough to scare them.

The scene before departure flashed through his mind—in the morning by the hangar, Lu Guangbiao glanced at the equipment on his waist, and the strange look that flashed between his brows only now began to have meaning.

At that time, he thought it was just that his superiors thought his gun wasn't shiny enough. Little did he know that he was only now realizing that when other pilots went on missions, almost everyone carried an M1 carbine on their side or back, with a 20 or 30-round magazine. Its range, accuracy, and firepower were sufficient for desperate fighting behind enemy lines.

He glanced down at his lone pistol, couldn't help but grin bitterly, and even muttered a self-deprecating remark to himself:
"Feelings... when it really matters, they're something you use to commit suicide."

The sun was already setting in the west, and the shadows of the bushes were stretched long, dappling his combat boots and trousers.

Song Shaojie crouched down beside a bush of thorns about half a person's height, his eyes scanning warily the other side of the hill ahead. Finding no one or any reflection, he then proceeded around it.

He secretly decided in his heart: if he could return to the army this time, no matter what the cost, he must get a carbine, even if it was a short-barreled one, so that he would have more confidence if he encountered this situation again.

…………

The rain curtain stretched a thick, dense, grayish-white veil between the sky and the earth, and the gale howled and rolled like a giant beast through the gaps in the hills.

Thunder and lightning illuminated the hazy sky, and in the distance, the railway line meandered out from the foot of the hills like a long snake gleaming with a rusty luster, its scales reflecting a cold light as the rain hit them.

On the rails, a Japanese train with more than ten carriages was speeding through this desolate hilly area.

The steam locomotive at the very front was shrouded in a cloud of black smoke, flattened by the wind and rain. Closely following behind the locomotive was a coal car, its open coal pile pitted and cratered by the rain, with deep streaks of black coal washed out by the rainwater.

Following the coal car was a unique carriage with a sealed steel shell and only a short chimney a little over a meter high protruding from the top, emitting sparse heat and the smell of cooking oil. It was a supply car converted into a kitchen.

Raindrops pounded on the tin roof, creating a rapid, drum-like sound.

Further on, there was a semi-open guard carriage with high railings.

Mud splattered on the fences on both sides, inside which sat fully armed Japanese soldiers. Their uniforms were soaked through by the rain, but each of their Type 38 rifles and swords tucked at their waists were still tightly wrapped in tarpaulin to prevent them from getting damp.

In the center of the carriage, a twin-barreled anti-aircraft machine gun, its cold metallic sheen gleaming, was mounted, its muzzle raised high, as if ready to deal with any threat that might fall from the sky.

Rainwater slid down the gun barrel, accumulating into small droplets at the rivets of the bracket, then trembling and falling as the train shook.

A dozen minutes later, the locomotive's whistle pierced through the wind and rain, followed by the ear-piercing screeching of the brake shoes against the wheels, "Squeak... yah..."

The train slowed down noticeably, the surrounding hills became gentler, and the tracks branched off ahead. Water droplets on the rails were picked up by the wheels, leaving a semi-circular white water trail at the intersection.

The train rumbled onto the siding and continued for another five minutes in the pouring rain, its speed decreasing until it finally came to a slow stop at a rain-soaked train station.

This is Datong Railway Station.

On the platform, a lively yet oppressive scene unfolded. Rows of Japanese soldiers wearing helmets and carrying bayonets and loaded rifles patrolled back and forth at the boarding gate, raindrops from their bayonets reflecting the cold light as they fell to the ground.

Weaving among them was a group of thin Chinese people: some carried bamboo baskets and pushed carts to transport goods, while others carried tattered cloth bags waiting for opportunities to do odd jobs. Their clothes were stained with water from days of rain, and rainwater slowly flowed into the drainage ditch at their feet.

The sounds of rain, shouts, whistles, and the hissing of steam mingled together, filling the air above the station with a mixture of coal smoke, sweat, rust, and damp wood.

On the other side of the platform, several Japanese corporals were instructing soldiers to use long bamboo poles to tap the station sign and eaves to prevent any suspicious individuals from sneaking in and hiding there. The whole scene resembled a giant machine, soaked by rain yet still running at full capacity, coldly consuming people and supplies.

The torrential rain continued to relentlessly pound the platform and train roof of Datong Station. Rainwater streamed down the eaves, striking the waterlogged bluestone slabs below and splashing up countless tiny droplets.

Just then, the specially made carriage, which had previously been tightly sealed with its doors and windows locked, and only had a short chimney protruding, slowly pushed open its heavy riveted iron door. Moist, hot steam mixed with a slight smell of coal smoke poured out from the cracks in the door, and the group quickly stepped onto the platform.

The leader was of medium height and was completely covered by a heavy military raincoat, obscuring both his rank insignia and face in the rain. Several fully armed entourages surrounded him closely on both sides and behind him.

Each follower wore a waxed raincoat and a steel helmet, and carried a Type 38 rifle with a bayonet. Their steps were synchronized and rapid.

Before the onlookers could get a good look, the unidentified officer had already been helped into a black four-door sedan that was already waiting on the side of the platform. The car body gleamed darkly under the rain, and the deep "puff puff" of the exhaust pipes mingled with the heavy roar of the engine.

On either side of the car, two trucks that had been lined up in a row started up with a roar. The truck beds were packed with Japanese soldiers who were armed to the teeth, with their gun muzzles and bayonets pointing outwards and their expressions cold.

The entire handover was smooth and efficient, taking only a few dozen seconds from the opening of the car door to the start of the car.

As the car drove away from the platform area, it splashed up two sharp waves of water. The trucks flanked it from both sides, and the car sped away through the rain.

Inside the car after leaving the platform, the world outside the window had blurred into a mass of gray, flowing colors.

The officer, whose face had been completely covered by his raincoat hood, slowly raised his arms and removed the hood, revealing a sharply defined, slightly aged face. —That was none other than Tada Shun, commander of the North China Area Army.

His eyebrows were thick, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes were clear, and his expression was calm but tinged with weariness, clearly indicating that he had arrived here after a long journey and weathering many storms.

Sitting in the passenger seat, First Army Chief of Staff Hanaya Masashi leaned forward slightly and gave a solemn military salute. His voice was deep and formal: "Commander, I am truly sorry. The battles at Niangziguan and Xinkou have reached a critical juncture. Commander Iwamatsu is simply unable to leave his post, so he can only send me to greet you. Please understand."

Tada Shun's gaze lingered on Hanaya Masashi's face for a moment, as if to confirm his attitude, but then he nodded slightly and said in a low and slow voice, "I know... the great cause of the empire is important. It's already quite kind of you, Iwamatsu-kun, to have you come to greet me."

Hanaya Masaru's expression turned serious upon hearing this, and he straightened up, turning his gaze forward.

It was clear that Tada Shun did not want to say much in this situation.

Inside the carriage, only the steady, muffled roar of the engine remained, accompanied by the soft splashing sound of the wheels rolling over the puddles.

Twenty minutes later, the convoy arrived at the First Army Headquarters in Datong, where Yoshio Iwamatsu personally led a group of men to wait at the entrance.

The car door was quickly opened by a servant, and Tada Shun stepped down. Water droplets were still dripping from the collar of his military uniform under his raincoat, but he remained expressionless. Their eyes met, and Iwamatsu Yoshio immediately bowed and gave a standard military salute: "Commander!"

Tada Shun simply nodded slightly in acceptance of the greeting, and then the two of them stepped onto the slippery stone steps one after the other, heading straight for the headquarters corridor.

Raindrops fell on the marble floor and were quickly wiped away by the servants. The atmosphere in the corridor was so oppressive that even the sound of footsteps seemed particularly heavy.

After entering Yoshio Iwamatsu's office, the attendant closed the heavy wooden door, keeping out the wind and rain.

Inside the room, map shelves and sand tables were covered with arrows and markings pointing in all directions, and newly received aerial reconnaissance photos were spread out on the table.

Tada Shun's first words were: "Now, explain to me in detail the situation at Niangziguan and Xinkou."

"Hai!"

Yoshio Iwamatsu bowed slightly: "Commander, the current situation in Xinkou and Niangziguan is as follows."

Su Yaoyang of China is leading more than 15,000 infantrymen, under the cover of 200 heavy artillery pieces and more than 100 warplanes, in a fierce attack on Niangziguan. The Third Division has been cut off from supplies due to the bombing of the Yangquan supply base, and can only hold its ground and wait for reinforcements. It has suffered heavy casualties under the attack of heavy artillery.

The situation in Xinkou was similar. Originally, the 27th Division launched a surprise attack on the 83rd Army of the Jin-Sui Army, hoping to defeat it and then encircle and annihilate the 129th Division of the Eighth Route Army and the 61st Army of the Jin-Sui Army. However, Su Yaoyang's troops immediately dispatched air force to carry out an air raid on the 27th Division, resulting in heavy losses for the 27th Division.

Although they are now barely able to continue advancing, their combat effectiveness is far inferior to what it used to be. I can only order them to speed up their pace and rendezvous with the Fourth Division stationed at Xinkou.

Furthermore, according to intelligence, Yan Xishan has ordered the First Cavalry Corps of the Jin-Sui Army to depart from Taiyuan to reinforce Xinkou. If they were to join forces with the Chinese troops outside Xinkou, our plan would completely fail.

(End of this chapter)