Chapter 248: The Inertia Of History
As the most important mobile force in the Japanese army’s forces in China, the Japanese Eleventh Army was the core mobile force of the Japanese “China Expeditionary Army” in the central China region, mainly responsible for operations in Wuhan and surrounding areas, undertaking the task of striking the Nationalist main forces in the Fifth and Ninth War Zones, serving as the “spearhead” of the Japanese army’s continuous offensive in China.
The army participated in multiple major campaigns such as the Battle of Wuhan, Battle of Changsha, Battle of Henan-Hunan-Guangxi, etc., and was the unit with the highest combat frequency and heaviest tasks among the invading Japanese forces, directly influencing the course of the Sino-Japanese War.
The Eleventh Army usually commanded 6-10 divisions and independent mixed brigades, special forces, with a force of about 150,000-250,000 men.
Whether in terms of troop scale or combat power, it was not something the First Army stationed in Shanxi could compare to.
This can be seen from the Army Aviation Corps under the Eleventh Army.
Take the First Army stationed in Shanxi as an example; normally, the combat aircraft under its command were only fifty or sixty, and that was because the Shanxi militia’s air force was too strong, having reinforced Shanxi’s air power several times; otherwise, having thirty or forty aircraft on a normal day would already be the limit.
But the Eleventh Army was different; for this encirclement battle, the Japanese army had truly spared no expense.
On the ground, it was the Third and Thirteenth Type-A Divisions, which were the elite of the elite in the Japanese army.
In the sky, more than a hundred various aircraft were assembled, attempting to use absolute air superiority to crush Zhang Zizhong’s 33rd Army Group along with their will to resist into powder.
It must be said that before the “Corsair” squadron appeared, their plan had proceeded very smoothly.
The Nationalists’ positions were bombed into a sea of fire, and the troops were firmly suppressed on the ground, unable to move.
But now, everything had changed.
F4U “Corsair” fighter, its signature inverted gull wings drawing elegant yet deadly arcs in the sky.
As one of the top piston-engine fighters of this era, it was equipped with the Pratt & Whitney R-2800 “Double Wasp” engine, erupting with surging power like the roar of a wild beast.
Facing the Japanese army’s Type 1 “Hayabusa” fighters, which excelled in lightness and dogfighting performance but sacrificed armor and structural strength, as well as the even heavier bomber formations, the “Corsair” was practically dimensionality reduction strike.
“Disperse the bombers, prioritize hunting escort fighters! Pull their teeth out first!”
Cheng Rufeng’s voice came calmly through the radio to every pilot’s ears.
He himself took the lead, piloting his mount, cutting into the chaotic Japanese aircraft formation with surgical precision.
His tactic was simple and brutal—”B&Z” Boom and Zoom, utilizing the “Corsair”‘s powerful energy advantage for high-speed dive attacks, hit and run, never engaging in dogfights with the Type 1 fighters that excelled in turning performance.
His first target was a Type 97 light bomber that was turning in panic.
Cheng Rufeng didn’t even bother with complex maneuvers; he just slightly pushed down the nose, locked the sight on that bomber, and then gently pressed the firing button.
“Thud thud thud thud…”
Six 12.7mm caliber Browning heavy machine guns roared simultaneously, six streams of orange tracer bullets like six searing whips instantly lashing onto the fragile fuselage of that bomber.
No suspense.
The bomber’s aluminum skin was torn open like paper, the wooden wing structure was instantly shattered, the fuel tank exploded, and the entire aircraft “boomed” in the air, exploding into a massive fireball, with countless burning fragments scattering in all directions.
“Next!” Cheng Rufeng’s heart was unmoved.
A Type 1 fighter noticed him; that Japanese pilot was clearly experienced, trying to use the superior horizontal maneuverability of the Type 1 fighter to circle to Cheng Rufeng’s side rear.
However, in the face of absolute power, skill seemed so pale.
Cheng Rufeng abruptly pushed the throttle forward, the R-2800 engine let out a roar, and the powerful thrust pressed him firmly into his seat. The “Corsair” climbed upward at an astonishing angle, instantly leaving the Type 1 fighter struggling to catch up behind.
Then, he executed a beautiful Immelmann turn, re-entering a dive from high altitude.
The Type 1 fighter that had tried to sneak attack him moments ago was now a defenseless target in his gunsight.
“Thud thud thud thud…”
Another brief but deadly burst. The orange tracer stream precisely covered the cockpit and engine of the Japanese fighter.
The canopy of that Type 1 fighter was instantly stained red with blood mist, and the aircraft trailed black smoke, powerless as it plummeted toward the ground.
In the next short ten-odd minutes, Cheng Rufeng transformed into the Grim Reaper of the skies.
He commanded the entire formation, driving the Japanese bomber formation apart like a wolf pack herding sheep, making it impossible for them to conduct effective bombing.
At the same time, he led his pilots in a one-sided massacre against the more than forty Japanese escort fighters.
In the sky, an “iron rain” composed of aircraft wreckage began to fall.
One after another, Japanese aircraft were continuously exploded mid-air by orange tracer streams or trailed thick smoke as they fell.
And in these short ten-odd minutes, Cheng Rufeng’s personal score had already reached an astonishing five kills—including three Type 1 fighters and two Type 97 light bombers.
Turning the skies over Pumpkin Shop into his hunting ground.
The air battle ended more swiftly and thoroughly than anyone could have imagined.
The two F4U “Corsair” fighter squadrons led by Cheng Rufeng were like two razor-sharp razors, scraping the once arrogant Japanese aircraft formation over Pumpkin Shop clean in less than twenty minutes.
When the surviving Japanese pilots finally awoke from the nightmare of being crushed by generational superiority, the only thing they could do was frantically push their throttles, piloting their battered aircraft in a headlong panicked flight toward Wuhan without looking back.
They came with over a hundred aircraft, vast and covering the sky.
They returned with less than half.
In the sky, the wreckage and black smoke from more than fifty burning Japanese fighters still drifted, like tombstones erected for this one-sided aerial slaughter.
“Fighter squadron, maintain outer perimeter alert, drive away all approaching flies.”
Cheng Rufeng’s voice came over the radio, carrying a hint of post-victory pleasure, “Dauntless squadron, the skies have been cleared for you; now, begin your performance!”
With the order given, the last squadron, consisting of twenty SBD “Dauntless” dive bombers circling high above, finally bared its fangs.
“Woo…”
A piercing, death-god-like wailing siren suddenly echoed across the entire battlefield!
That was the sound produced by the dive brakes of the “Dauntless” bombers being impacted by airflow during dive entry. This sound became the death knell for all Japanese soldiers on the ground.
Twenty “Dauntless” dive bombers, as if having trained countless times, in neat formation, noses down, at nearly vertical angles, launched a devastating dive toward the Japanese positions besieging Zhang Zizhong’s headquarters on the ground.
The Japanese soldiers on the ground looked up in terror at the aircraft whistling down like black reapers; their eyes were filled with incredulous fear. Where was their air squadron? Where was their air cover?
No one could answer them.
What answered them were the bombs.
“Whoosh… boom!”
The first “Dauntless” dove to less than five hundred meters from the ground, and the pilot precisely released the 1000-pound large aerial bomb from under the fuselage.
That bomb, trailing a shrill whistle, accurately smashed into the assembly area of a Japanese infantry battalion.
No deafening roar, just an extremely muffled “thud.”
Immediately after, a massive hemispherical shockwave mixed with soil and flames erupted violently from the explosion point!
Everything within hundreds of square meters vanished.
Whether soldiers firing, set-up machine guns, or stacked ammunition crates, all of it was directly vaporized in that instant of extreme heat and shockwave, without even a trace of wreckage left.
The Japanese on the periphery were like ants swept by a giant’s hand, torn to pieces in swathes, or hurled high by the violent shockwave before crashing heavily to the ground.
This was merely the beginning.
One after another “Dauntless” dive bomber arrived like the scythe of the Grim Reaper.
One after another 1000-pound heavy bombs and 250-pound conventional bombs rained down precisely on Japanese artillery positions, command posts, and assault formations.
The earth trembled and wailed. Japanese positions were erased from the map in swathes, replaced by massive craters belching black smoke.
Those Japanese who had been arrogantly besieging the Nationalists’ positions moments ago were now plunged into complete chaos and hell. They cried out in despair, fleeing in all directions, but there was nowhere to hide, because the sky’s reaper was systematically and efficiently “calling their names.”
When the last aircraft of the last squadron, a “Dauntless” dive bomber, dropped its final bomb and elegantly pulled up, returning to altitude.
The gunfire that had roared almost all day over the entire Pumpkin Shop battlefield grew sparse.
The Japanese siege of the 33rd Army Group’s headquarters had been utterly shattered by this one squadron’s dive bombing.
The judgment from the skies had just ended, and the prelude to hell had already begun.
After the “Dauntless” dive bomber formation plowed the Japanese positions on the outskirts of Pumpkin Shop over and over, the entire battlefield fell into an eerie silence, with only distant explosion echoes and the wails of wounded soldiers remaining.
On the Nationalists’ positions, the surviving soldiers erupted in earth-shaking cheers; looking at the raging fires on the Japanese positions, their morale had soared to its peak.
Zhang Zizhong stood at the edge of a bombed-out trench, his burly frame standing ramrod straight.
He had personally witnessed how this divine force from the heavens had routed the arrogant Japanese air squadron and then, with thunderous might, bombed his besieging enemies into disintegration.
As a battle-hardened veteran, he of course knew to strike while the iron was hot; he immediately issued the order for a full-line counterattack.
However, at that moment, a barely audible grunt suddenly sounded.
“Hm…”
The guard standing beside him, the young soldier who had just shielded him with his body, felt his heart skip a beat.
He turned his head in horror, only to see the general’s mountain-like burly frame sway violently, as if pushed by an invisible giant hand, toppling straight sideways.
“Commander!”
The guard let out a shrill scream, throwing himself forward regardless, tightly holding the falling Zhang Zizhong.
He was scared out of his wits, his hands trembling as he checked the general’s body. Immediately, his pupils contracted sharply, and all color drained from his face.
Under the general’s left ribs, an unremarkable bullet hole was oozing blood, quickly staining that tattered officer’s uniform red.
It was a stray bullet from who knows which corner, a despicable and fatal bullet that had survived the blanket bombing.
It ended everything.
………..
5:35 p.m.
On the muddy road leading to Pumpkin Shop, a steel torrent was advancing rapidly. Su Yaoyang personally led, with Armored Regiment 1 as the vanguard, over a hundred trucks carrying infantry, speeding toward Pumpkin Shop.
He had already issued the order to advance at full speed, determined to reach Pumpkin Shop before dusk tomorrow to relieve the 33rd Army Group.
The air inside the armored command vehicle was somewhat stuffy; Su Yaoyang sat in his seat, swaying drowsily, dozing off.
Suddenly, the vehicle-mounted radio emitted a series of urgent “beep beep” signals—highest priority encrypted communication.
The radioman deftly transcribed the message, but when he read the content on the paper, his previously relaxed expression froze instantly, and he turned ashen like he’d been struck by lightning.
He looked up, lips trembling, at Su Yaoyang who was dozing in his seat, his voice distorted sharp by fear and grief:
“C-… Commander… just now… just received urgent telegram from the front…”
Su Yaoyang opened his eyes, seeing the radioman’s expression, his heart sank, a bad premonition surging.
“Speak!” His voice remained steady, but carried a chill.
The radioman swallowed hard with difficulty, mustering all his strength to report word by word:
“General… General Zhang Zizhong… at Pumpkin Shop… has died in battle.”
“Boom,” it was as if something exploded in Su Yaoyang’s mind.
The command vehicle fell instantly silent, even the engine’s roar seeming to vanish.
The smile on his face stiffened, then faded bit by bit, replaced by a coldness that could freeze the air.
He had won the battle, but lost to the inertia of history.
He had saved the entire army group, but failed to save that one man’s life.
Could history really not be changed? Or was there something in the shadows watching all this, forcing him to obediently follow history’s inertia?
