World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Reporting to the President, the first batch of two hundred family housing units has been completed and will be available for occupancy next month. Priority will be given to the families of soldiers who have served for three years or more and have demonstrated outstanding performance."

"Zhou Afu," Chen Feng turned to look at him, "when you complete your three-year service, if you are still an outstanding soldier, you can apply to bring your family over early. You can live in the house first, and then apply for property ownership after you have served five years."

Zhou Afu stared wide-eyed, his lips moved, but he didn't say a word.

"What, you don't want to?"

"I...I'm willing!" Zhou Afu stood up, his eyes reddening. "Thank you, Commander!"

"Sit down," Chen Feng gestured. "No need to thank me. This is what you earned with your sweat and loyalty. Lanfang will not mistreat those who shed blood and sweat for her."

He glanced around at the soldiers at the same table:

"You all will. Train hard, serve well, Lanfang will never forget you. You will have houses, family reunions, and good days ahead."

The soldiers nodded vigorously, their eyes shining.

After finishing his meal, Chen Feng didn't leave immediately. He asked the cooks to bring him a bucket of hot water and washed his lunchbox—just like the soldiers. Then he went to the sink outside the mess hall and watched the soldiers wash their dishes.

"Commander-in-Chief," Zhao Dashan said softly, "would you like to rest for a bit? There's a meeting this afternoon..."

"No rush," Chen Feng said. "I want to see the night training."

"Night training starts at nine o'clock."

"Then I'll wait until nine o'clock."

Having no other option, Zhao Dashan arranged for Chen Feng to go to the regimental headquarters' rest room. But Chen Feng didn't rest; instead, he went to the weapons exhibition room to look at the equipment stored by the Third Regiment.

Machine guns, submachine guns, heavy machine guns, and all sorts of grenades, explosives, engineering equipment... all were kept in a gleaming condition.

"Do the soldiers take care of themselves?" Chen Feng asked.

"Yes. Each soldier is responsible for their own weapon, wiping it down daily and disassembling and maintaining it weekly," Zhao Dashan said. "Our guns were designed with ease of maintenance in mind, with a maximum of thirty-four parts, which every soldier can master."

Chen Feng picked up a submachine gun, pulled the bolt, and inspected the chamber. His movements were practiced, clearly indicating that this wasn't his first time handling a gun.

"Chief Engineer Liu," he suddenly asked, "what production capacity can our arsenal currently achieve?"

Liu Yongfu took out a notebook from his bag:

"Currently, we can produce the following per month: 2,000 rifles, 100 light machine guns, 50 heavy machine guns, 300 submachine guns, 20 75mm infantry guns, 8 105mm howitzers, and 300 tons of various types of ammunition. If we operate at full capacity, we can increase production by 30%."

"Enough to equip several divisions?"

"Based on the First Division's organizational structure, it could equip 1.5 divisions. But we need reserves, rotation, and exports... In reality, we can only maintain a continuous supply for one full-strength division."

"Too slow," Chen Feng said. "I need to equip at least three full-strength divisions by the end of 1913, and also have sufficient reserves."

Liu Yongfu quickly calculated: "That would require tripling the existing production capacity. We would need to build two new arsenals, expand the special steel plant, and train at least five thousand skilled workers."

"Where's the money?"

"Initial budget... three million pounds."

"Approved," Chen Feng said without hesitation. "It will be allocated from the Nanyang Homecoming Fund. Uncle Wang, write it down."

Uncle Wang was writing in his notebook, the brush making a soft scratching sound.

"But President," Liu Yongfu hesitated, "wouldn't this be... too radical? Our civilian industries also need funding."

"Civilian industry is important," Chen Feng said, turning around, "but the defense industry is the foundation. Without guns, everything we build is prey for others. The Java incident taught us one thing—"

He paused:

"When you have power, others will reason with you. When you have no power, others will only talk to you about bullets."

Liu Yongfu fell silent. He knew Chen Feng was right.

"Three years," Chen Feng said, looking at the soldiers outside the window. "We have three more years. In 1913, we will begin our journey home. Before that, we must have a strong enough army to protect us as we travel this road."

At 9 p.m., night training began.

Only a few searchlights were on in the training field, leaving most of the area in darkness. The soldiers were divided into red and blue teams for night combat drills. Zhou Afu's red team was tasked with infiltrating the blue team's position and destroying the "command post."

There was no moonlight, and the starlight was dim. Zhou Afu followed his squad leader, crawling forward in the darkness, relying on a compass and map for navigation. His machine gun had been wrapped in strips of cloth to prevent glare and rattling noises.

"Stop," said Squad Leader Wang Tiezhu in a low voice.

There was a sentry about 30 meters ahead.

The squad leader made a hand gesture: Zhou Afu, provide cover; the rest of you, flank around. Zhou Afu set up the machine gun, and through the scope, the sentry's figure flickered in the dim light.

The comrade who had circled around to the back of the sentry suddenly sprang into action and "killed" the sentry. The entire process was completely silent.

"keep going."

They traversed the marked minefield, bypassed barbed wire, and evaded patrols. The focus of night training wasn't shooting, but infiltration, reconnaissance, and coordination. Zhou Afu discovered that in the darkness, his hearing became exceptionally acute—he could distinguish the sound of the wind, the chirping of insects, and distant footsteps.

An hour later, they arrived at the outskirts of the Blue Team's command post. It was a tent made of canvas, with gas lamps lit inside, and figures moving about.

"Prepare for a full-scale attack," the squad leader ordered.

Zhou Afu positioned his machine gun on high ground, blocking all exits. The other comrades split into three groups and stormed in from different directions.

"Three, two, one, move out!"

The machine gun fired—using blank cartridges, but the muzzle flash was still blinding in the darkness. Comrades rushed into the tent at the same time, and shouts of "Surrender and you will not be killed!" came from inside.

Thirty seconds later, the battle ended. The Blue Team's command post was "destroyed" and the commander was "captured".

Training ended, and the debriefing began. Regiment Commander Zhao Dashan turned on the high-powered lights, illuminating the training ground as if it were daytime.

"The Red Team performed well," he said. "Their infiltration routes were well-chosen, their coordination was excellent, and their attacks were decisive. But there's one problem—"

He walked to Zhou Afu's machine gun position:

"In night combat, muzzle flashes will reveal your position. Zhou Afu, you must move within three seconds of firing, but you hesitated for five seconds. In real combat, those extra two seconds would be enough for an enemy mortar to blow you to bits."

"Yes!" Zhou Afu stood at attention.

"Remember, in night combat, a firing point is a suicide point. Fire and run, then find another spot to fire again."

"clear!"

The debriefing was over at 11 p.m. The soldiers dragged their tired bodies back to the barracks, but their spirits remained high—the commander-in-chief was still watching.

Chen Feng walked to the center of the training field, where a stone tablet stood, erected when the base was built. Originally, there was nothing on the tablet, but today he had someone prepare writing materials.

"Commander Zhao."

"exist."

"I'll say it, you write it."

Zhao Dashan took the brush and dipped it in ink.

Chen Feng looked at the night sky, at the countless stars, and slowly spoke:

The first line: "Swords will be turned into plowshares, but the time will come."

Zhao Dashan wrote these eight characters on the stone tablet. The ink spread across the tablet, vigorous and powerful.

The second sentence: "Warriors are the shield to protect our homes, not the spears to seize others."

Eight more characters.

The third sentence: Today's arduous training is so that we may not have to resort to violence in the future.

The last column.

After finishing writing, Chen Feng took the brush and signed his name in the lower right corner: Chen Feng, June 1, 1910.

He put down his pen and said to the soldiers who had gathered around him:

"These three sentences are the oath of the Lanfang army. We forge swords not to invade, but to protect. We train hard not to fight, but to deter the enemy from attacking us."

He paused:

"When we return home one day, and Southeast Asia is at peace, all these guns and cannons can be melted down and turned into plowshares, hoes, and desks for children to use in school. That is the best place for these steel pieces."

The soldiers listened quietly. A night breeze blew by, carrying the coolness of the desert.

Zhou Afu looked at the words on the stone tablet. Although he didn't quite understand some of them, he understood the meaning: being a soldier is not about killing people, but about preventing others from killing you.

This is enough.

Chen Feng took one last look at the soldiers, then turned and walked towards the convoy. Before getting into the car, he turned back and said:

"Train hard. Once you've trained well, I'll take you home."

The car drove out of the training base, its taillights gradually disappearing into the darkness.

Zhou Afu stood in front of the stone tablet for a long time. Then he stood at attention and saluted.