Chapter 270: Passing The Buck
The wind gradually stopped.
That yellow dust curtain stirred up by countless trucks also slowly settled, falling back to the earth as if it had never appeared.
In the air, only the thick, choking smell of diesel exhaust remained, along with the heavy, ox-like panting of over ten thousand Japanese soldiers.
Machishiri Ryoki still stood rigidly in place, like a weathered statue.
The horsewhip in his hand had long fallen into the mud, yet he was completely unaware.
His brain was now caught in an unprecedented internal struggle, more intense and dangerous than any previous battle.
Chase?
The thought had just surfaced when he snuffed it out himself.
In his mind even appeared an utterly ridiculous scene: his proud “Kumamoto Warriors” under his command, one by one sticking out their tongues like a pack of chased stupid dogs, frantically pawing at the mud with all four legs, while the Chinese soldiers on the trucks ahead leisurely crossed their legs, smoking while tossing banana peels at them.
Chase my ass! Use two legs to chase four wheels?
Only madmen and fools would do such a thing.
Moreover, who knows if that cunning Su Yaoyang was waiting in some ravine ahead, with pits dug and cannons set up, ready for his exhausted troops to crash right in, then enjoy a nice counterattack.
A chill ran up the back of Machishiri Ryoki’s neck.
Then… not chase?
This thought made him feel more humiliated than defeat.
Not chasing meant that he, the grand division commander of the Imperial Japanese Army’s 6th Division, after paying the tragic price of nearly the entire 13th Regiment wiped out, would just watch the enemy swagger away from right in front of him without daring to make a peep.
He could almost see the colleagues from the arriving 3rd and 13th Divisions looking at him with eyes full of contempt and mockery from behind.
He could even imagine how those old guys in the Army Headquarters would gossip about him over tea and dinner: “Heard about it? Machishiri from the Kumamoto Division was scared witless by the Chinese trucks, ran off like a stray dog without even the courage to give chase.”
At this thought, Machishiri Ryoki’s face flushed pig-liver red, blood buzzing straight to his head, feeling as if his skull was about to be blown off by this nameless rage and shame.
Chase, and it’s self-humiliation; not chase, and it’s utter humiliation.
He paced irritably back and forth in the mud like a caged beast, his shiny military boots squelching in the muck, splattering mud that dirtied his crisp uniform trousers, but he no longer cared.
He felt trapped in a dead end, no matter what he chose, it was a loss.
Just as he was about to be driven mad by this manic emotion, a thought flashed like lightning in the darkness, suddenly cleaving through his chaotic thoughts.
Wait… why am I making the decision myself?
Machishiri Ryoki abruptly stopped, a sly and relieved gleam flashing in his bloodshot eyes.
His rage-burned brain, on the verge of short-circuiting, suddenly burst forth with a brilliant idea shining with bureaucratic wisdom, transcending eras.
“Report to superiors!”
Having figured it out, he instantly relaxed.
He was no longer the duped loser, but an exemplary commander dutifully upholding his responsibilities and considering the big picture.
“Report everything that happened here, every detail without omission, to the 11th Army Headquarters, and request tactical guidance from Commander Sonobe on our next steps!”
He issued the order to the communications staff officer beside him, his voice loud and full of feigned dignified authority.
The communications staff officer was stunned for a moment, but then snapped to attention: “Hai!”
Watching the communications soldier dash off to set up the radio, Machishiri Ryoki let out a long sigh of relief. He felt the mountain weighing on his heart instantly lifted.
This move was truly brilliant!
His little mental abacus was clicking away: kick the ball to the commander.
If the commander orders chase, and they fail to catch up or fall into an ambush, it’s the commander’s responsibility; I just faithfully execute orders.
If the commander orders not to chase, then I have a way out—it’s not my incompetence, but superior orders.
No matter the outcome, he wouldn’t have to shoulder this black pot alone!
No wonder they say buck-passing is the ladder of human civilization’s progress, a universal talent transcending eras, races, and professions.
At this moment, Machishiri Ryoki profoundly grasped the essence of this art.
Wuhan, Japanese 11th Army Headquarters.
Unlike the muddy, foul-smelling front lines, here was a scene of perfect order.
Staff officers in impeccably pressed uniforms hurried through corridors lined with maps, their leather boots striking the floor crisply and rhythmically.
The air was filled with the mingled aromas of coffee, black tea, and cigarettes, creating an elegant yet stern atmosphere utterly at odds with the cruelty of war.
11th Army Commander Lieutenant General Sonobe Kazuhiro, newly appointed less than three months ago, sat in his spacious office enjoying a moment of quiet.
He held a freshly brewed cup of Shizuoka jade dew, the emerald tea rippling gently in the white porcelain cup, emitting a fresh fragrance.
He disliked the cigar stench left by that old fart Okamura Ninji, so upon taking office he opened all the office windows and changed the curtains.
He needed to mark this power center with his own scent, declaring its new master.
“Commander!”
A communications staff officer broke the tranquility, striding into the office and respectfully handing over a just-received telegram.
“Oh… from the 6th Division?”
Sonobe Kazuhiro set down his teacup, leisurely taking the telegram with the restrained smile of a superior.
For he instinctively assumed it was a victory report—after all, deploying several elite divisions to surround a Chinese force of less than 20,000, failure would be inexcusable.
However, as his eyes scanned the text, that mild smile first froze, then cracked inch by inch like shattered glass.
The telegram’s content was simple, even absurd.
Machishiri Ryoki described how the Shanxi militia with countless trucks staged a earth-shaking retreat right before him, then… at the end, in an extremely humble tone, earnestly requested the commander to provide “tactical guidance” on the matter of “chase or not chase.”
Sonobe Kazuhiro’s eye twitched uncontrollably.
The hand holding the teacup had veins bulging one by one, as if about to crush the exquisite porcelain into powder.
The air pressure in the office plummeted to freezing in mere seconds.
He wasn’t a fool.
To rise from countless officers to the 11th Army commander’s seat, his mind was sharper than most.
Machishiri Ryoki’s little abacus, as obvious as a multiplication table, he had seen through at a glance!
This bastard… he wasn’t requesting instructions; he was buck-passing.
Sonobe Kazuhiro’s nose nearly twisted in rage.
A fury surged from his soles straight to his skull, burning his vision black.
Damn it, you Machishiri Ryoki got played like a fool by their four wheels, beaten like a dog, lost the Kumamoto Division’s face, and now you think to shove this black, stinking pot onto my head?
You think I’m new here, without experience commanding you arrogant bastards?
He could almost picture Machishiri Ryoki’s sly face when sending the telegram.
Sonobe Kazuhiro slammed the desk, splashing tea from the cup.
“This lowly peasant-born scum!”
He growled low, voice squeezed through clenched teeth, “If that old bastard Okamura Ninji were still here, would you dare send such a telegram? Dare make him take the blame?
You wouldn’t! You bully-the-weak-fear-the-strong coward!”
You want me to take the blame? I’ll not only refuse, I’ll heat this pot red-hot and shove it back in your arms—let’s see what you do!
The communications staff officer in the office shuddered at the commander’s sudden rage, head bowed even lower, wishing to become a floor tile on the spot.
Sonobe Kazuhiro’s anger came fast and went fast.
After peak fury came icy calculation.
He sat back in his chair, face calm again, but his eyes turned exceptionally cold, too chilling to meet.
He took a pen and scrawled a line on a notepad, handing it to the now-petrified communications staff officer.
“Reply to the 6th Division at once.” His voice was flat, emotionless.
……
Front lines, muddy road.
Machishiri Ryoki anxiously awaited the reply, smug about his “wisdom.”
He had it all planned: once the headquarters reply arrived, whatever the order, he could execute perfectly and shirk all responsibility.
“Report… reply from headquarters!”
The communications soldier panted up, handing him the telegram.
Machishiri Ryoki’s heart leaped with joy as he eagerly unfolded it.
But when he read the shortest possible single line, his smug smile froze instantly.
The telegram had only one line:
“Handle this matter at 6th Division’s discretion, dispose accordingly.”
This line was like a ruthless slap across Machishiri Ryoki’s face.
No, worse than a slap—this was a gut punch, kicking all his earlier fantasies and schemes back into his belly, twisting his insides out of place.
That thin telegram paper now felt like a thousand pounds, fluttering from his trembling hand like a wingless butterfly, powerlessly into the mud at his feet.
Machishiri Ryoki was dumbfounded.
He felt like a cheeky student tossing a tough problem to the teacher, only for the teacher to smirk and throw the paper back with four big words: “Figure it out yourself.”
Not only was the ball kicked back, it was coated in deadly poison.
Sonobe Kazuhiro’s move pinned him dead in the corner, leaving no room to maneuver.
Chase, or not chase? This life-or-death question was back in his hands. And this time, he had no excuses or escape.
