Chapter 250: Bet
The outskirts of the Japanese army’s position finally fell, and the armored regiment and vanguard troops immediately surged into Pumpkin Town like a tide, engaging in fierce combat with the Japanese army.
At this moment, the brutality of street fighting was displayed here in full detail, but the two warring sides showed a bizarre asymmetry.
One side was well-equipped hunters with skilled tactics and seamless coordination, while the other was prey completely stunned, with disorganized units fighting independently.
Zhang Wenshan personally led his infantry platoon, thrusting like a red-hot blade deep into the heart of Pumpkin Town.
As a veteran of over two years in the army, originally a sniper with illustrious battle achievements, Zhang Wenshan should have been a company commander long ago, but when the superiors talked to him about it, the guy flatly refused, saying he preferred to stay in the troops as a platoon leader or even a private rather than be a company commander.
This matter even alarmed Su Yaoyang. Seeing his firm attitude, Su Yaoyang could only helplessly appoint him as the platoon leader of an infantry platoon, and to reward his merits, Su Yaoyang specially promoted his rank to lieutenant, making him the only lieutenant platoon leader in the Shanxi Militia.
“Firepower team! Suppress the window on the second floor opposite! Assault team, follow me!”
Zhang Wenshan leaned behind a broken wall and shouted orders loudly.
As soon as he finished speaking, an M1919 heavy machine gun opened fire, emitting a deep and rhythmic roar. The dense bullet rain instantly shattered the bricks around the second-floor window of the house opposite, silencing the crooked-handle machine gun inside.
Taking advantage of this opportunity, Zhang Wenshan led several soldiers carrying Thompson submachine guns, darting across the street like cats and closing in on that house.
“Hand grenades!”
Several MKII grenades emitting blue smoke were precisely thrown in through the window.
“Boom! Boom!”
Amid violent explosions and screams, Zhang Wenshan kicked open the door and charged in first, unsparingly emptying the magazine of his Thompson submachine gun on any target still moving.
The entire clearing operation was efficient, ruthless, and filled with bloody violent aesthetics.
At that moment, a soldier responsible for forward reconnaissance crouched back, his face showing a mix of excitement and gravity:
“Platoon leader… we found it! At the crossroads ahead, we spotted General Zhang’s guards… they’re surrounded!”
Zhang Wenshan’s pupils suddenly contracted.
“Everyone! Follow me!”
Without the slightest hesitation, he immediately reported the matter to his superiors via the walkie-talkie.
The battalion commander then issued a brief order to nearby units, “All units, converge on the crossroads! Repeat, converge on the crossroads! Hurry!”
When Zhang Wenshan arrived at the crossroads with his men, he was shocked by the scene before him.
Under a destroyed archway, seven or eight soldiers in National Army uniforms stood back-to-back in a circle, guarding with their remaining rifles and a big sword the burly body lying on the ground in the center.
Surrounding them were dozens of frenzied Japanese soldiers, like hyenas smelling blood, launching wave after wave of suicidal charges from all directions, their goal obvious—seizing that immensely important body for the Chinese army.
The guards were all wounded, their ammunition clearly exhausted, but not one retreated half a step, using bayonets and teeth to protect their general’s final dignity.
“Open fire!”
Li Gaoyuan roared in fury.
The next second, vengeful flames erupted from all directions.
Dozens of Thompson submachine guns, M1 Garand rifles, and BAR automatic rifles fired simultaneously. The dense bullet rain from different angles formed a flawless crossfire net, instantly enveloping the besieging Japanese.
“Da-da-da-da-da…”
“Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!”
This was no longer a battle, but a one-sided massacre.
The Japanese soldiers fell in droves, as if thrown into a meat grinder.
Bullets tore their bodies, leaving them bloodied and mangled; some heads were even blown apart by large-caliber bullets, splattering red and white everywhere.
In just over ten seconds, the once noisy crossroads fell silent, leaving only the roar of the militia soldiers’ weapons and the crisp clatter of bullet casings hitting the ground.
Zhang Wenshan held his gun, stepping toward the circle forged by the loyal guards with their lives.
The surviving guards saw the uniforms on them, and their taut nerves finally relaxed; they collapsed to the ground one by one. The leading second lieutenant, tears streaming down his face, pointed shakily at the body on the ground, his voice hoarse: “We… we protected the general…”
Zhang Wenshan slowly removed his helmet, gazing at the face on the ground—unyielding and dignified even in death—and silently saluted.
He then picked up the portable radio, pressed the talk button, his voice trembling slightly but mostly solemn with mission accomplished.
“Company commander… this is Zhang Wenshan.”
“We… found General Zhang.”
After a moment, the company commander’s cold voice came through, emotionless yet carrying immense power.
“Good.”
“Zhang Wenshan… orders from the commander-in-chief!”
“Pumpkin Town… leave no chicken or dog alive.”
In the frontline command post of the Japanese 11th Army in Ying Mountain, Commander Sonobe Hyoichiro Lieutenant General was leisurely sipping a cup of fine Gyokuro tea.
Just minutes ago, he had received jubilant news: the commander of the Chinese 33rd Army Group, Army General Zhang Zizhong, had fallen in battle at Pumpkin Town!
“Banzai!”
Sonobe Hyoichiro let out a satisfied exclamation, a victor’s smile on his face. “This is the Empire’s great victory! The Chinese resistance will be buried alongside their toughest general!”
He was already planning how to boast of this brilliant achievement to Tokyo General Headquarters and the Army Ministry.
However, his good mood did not last long.
An intelligence staff officer rushed into the command post, forgetting to salute, his face twisted in terror and drenched in sweat.
“Commander… bad news!”
Sonobe Hyoichiro’s brows furrowed instantly, displeased. “Panicking like that, what decorum is this! Speak slowly!”
“Pump… Pumpkin Town…”
The intelligence staff officer gasped, his voice breaking like a sob. “A highly combat-effective Chinese force suddenly stormed into Pumpkin Town! Zhang Zizhong’s body… was… taken back by them!”
“Crash!”
The teacup in Sonobe Hyoichiro’s hand shattered on the floor.
He sprang up, grabbing the staff officer’s collar, his bloodshot eyes glaring. “What?
The body was taken back? What about the 13th Division garrisoned there? What were they doing! A bunch of rice buckets?!”
“The 13th Division…”
The staff officer’s voice shook like a leaf in autumn wind. “They… they were routed! Heavy casualties, abandoning equipment in flight… the enemy’s firepower… too… too terrifying…”
“Baka yarou!”
Before Sonobe Hyoichiro could vent his rage, another aviation staff officer responsible for army air force liaison stumbled in, even more distraught.
His face was ashen as paper, as if he had seen demons from hell.
“Commander… air… airspace…”
“Speak!”
Sonobe Hyoichiro felt his temples throbbing, an ominous premonition gripping him.
“A large… large number of unidentified Chinese fighters suddenly appeared over Pumpkin Town!” The aviation staff officer’s voice was shrill and hoarse. “Our army air force units… engaged them in air combat…”
Sonobe Hyoichiro’s heart sank, but he clung to hope, demanding harshly, “What were the results?!”
The aviation staff officer shuddered violently, as if drained of strength, collapsing to his knees with a “thud” and murmuring dreamily:
“In less than half an hour… just under half an hour…”
“We… we lost over fifty aircraft…”
“Over a hundred fighters… more than half destroyed…”
“Boom!”
This report exploded in Sonobe Hyoichiro’s mind like a heavy bomb.
The entire command post fell into dead silence; all staff stopped work, staring at the kneeling aviation staff officer like a monster.
Over fifty aircraft?
In less than half an hour?
How was this possible?! This wasn’t war; it was a one-sided slaughter! When did the Chinese gain such terrifying air power? Who were they really fighting? Americans?!
Sonobe Hyoichiro felt the world spinning; he staggered back two steps and collapsed into his chair. His mouth gaped, but no words came.
He, who moments ago reveled in killing the enemy commander, plummeted from heaven to hell in minutes.
His proud elite division crippled, his hoped-for army air force annihilated, and even the prize war trophy—Zhang Zizhong’s body—snatched from his grasp, slapping him hard in return.
He asked hoarsely, “Which unit did this?”
The staff officer trembled. “Shanxi Militia!”
“Shanxi Militia?”
Sonobe Hyoichiro snapped awake from his daze, clutching at this like a lifeline, staring at the intelligence staff officer. “You say… the ones who defeated us are called ‘Shanxi Militia’? What kind of force is that? Some ace unit of Chongqing’s army?”
In his mindset, such terrifying combat power must belong to Chiang Kai-shek’s elite German-equipped divisions or some mysterious force heavily aided by America and the Soviets.
As for “militia,” it meant to him rabble with outdated guns, worthless rabble.
Seeing the commander’s stunned look, the intelligence staff officer hurriedly pulled a crumpled, pre-prepared file from his pocket—intelligence department’s hastily compiled dossier on this mysterious force from scattered reports.
“General, based on our current intelligence, this Shanxi Militia… it is indeed a local militia from Shanxi.”
The staff officer’s voice was dry, even he found the content fantastical.
“Its commander is named Su Yaoyang, reportedly a young man who fled Nanjing. Through unknown channels, he obtained vast quantities of superior American equipment—even better than our Imperial Army’s—including tanks, heavy artillery, and… fighters.”
The staff officer spoke while cautiously watching Sonobe Hyoichiro’s face.
“This force initially operated in Shanxi, repeatedly crushing our garrisons there. North China Area Army Headquarters launched multiple encirclements, all… ending in failure. Due to its superior equipment and bizarre tactics, North China Area Army privately calls it the ‘Demon Unit.’ We just never imagined they’d appear on the Hubei battlefield…”
Listening to the report, Sonobe Hyoichiro’s face shifted from shock to realization, then to a fiercer nameless fire of humiliation and rage.
He, commander of the Imperial Japanese Army’s 11th Army, a lieutenant general, routed by an obscure “militia” led by some young punk?
This was utter humiliation! Shame on the entire 11th Army, the whole Imperial Japanese Army!
“Baka!”
Sonobe Hyoichiro slammed the table, flinging the report he hadn’t bothered to read. His bloodshot eyes blazed with mad fury again.
Previous shock and fear were replaced by a gambler’s sore-loser mentality.
He couldn’t lose, especially not to such a “miscellaneous band”!
“Transmit my orders!” Sonobe Hyoichiro bellowed, his voice echoing through the command post with unquestionable madness.
“Order! 3rd Division, 13th Division, halt all prior plans immediately! Entire army redirect, launch general assault on Pumpkin Town!”
“Tell them! I don’t care about casualties or cost! I want one result!”
“Namely…”
“Wipe this so-called ‘Shanxi Militia’ off the map completely! Leave none alive!”
“I’ll wash away the Imperial Army’s shame with their blood!”
The command post staff were stunned by the commander’s mad order. Two elite divisions just to deal with a militia? And a frontal assault without air superiority, against absolute enemy firepower advantage?
But facing Sonobe Hyoichiro’s crazed, twisted face, none dared object.
They knew the commander had staked everything.
………..
Unlike the distant, shell-ravaged Hubei battlefield, the militia’s rear base in Wuta County, Shanxi, was peaceful yet bustling.
Outside the field hospital, on a large newly cleared plot, rows of brand-new dormitories were rising. The builders were a special group of “workers.”
A group of Japanese POWs in khaki uniforms.
Under the sunlight, these once ferocious “Imperial Army” soldiers on the battlefield seemed transformed.
Bare-chested, showing toned muscles, they sweated profusely hauling timber and bricks.
Some mixed mortar, some laid bricks, some erected beams—skilled, coordinated, faces showing no reluctance, but pious focus.
Nearby, a few militia guards overseeing them lounged bored in the shade, smoking, watching the tamely rabbit-like POWs with bemused expressions.
“Damn, this is eerie.”
A veteran exhaled smoke, muttering to his comrade. “I was itching for a chance to properly thrash these dog bastards, avenge our fallen brothers. Look at them now—can’t even pick a fight!”
“Tell me about it?”
Another soldier chimed in. “Tell him to work, he hustles harder than anyone. Feed him, he bows ninety degrees saying thanks. Makes me almost lose my temper seeing them.”
Among these “overseers,” one stood out.
It was Nakata Kashihiko, the first to kneel and surrender.
Unlike others, as overseer he didn’t do manual labor. With a black rubber baton at his waist, he held a simple blueprint, directing and occasionally correcting POWs’ errors in broken Chinese.
“You there, yes, you! Timber angle’s wrong—tilt it inward more! That way it’s stable!”
“And you, bricklayer! Smooth the mortar in the joints, no gaps! You’re building your own houses—slacking so it collapses and kills you? Baka!”
He scolded with an officer’s air, but the POWs obeyed like an imperial decree, stopping work to bow respectfully, then meticulously correcting as instructed.
This eerie harmony left the militia officers itching to “discipline” POWs feeling powerless, their fists punching cotton.
The Japanese nation was indeed peculiar. With a blade in hand, inhuman beasts; blade taken, prisoners, they switched roles, maxing out ingrained obedience and collectivism into unbelievable docility.
Near noon, the site’s heavy scent of sweat, dirt, and sawdust was diluted by a woman’s fragrance and crisp laughter.
Nakata Kashihiko stopped scolding, looking toward the sound. His gaze pierced the instantly stirred POWs, locking on that familiar, graceful figure.
It was Haruko, his Haruko, arriving.
She and a group of Japanese nurses in white uniforms carried large wooden basins, like goddesses descending on the dusty site.
Haruko led, her fitted nurse uniform outlining her soft curves; with light steps, her legs flickered under the skirt hem, each step stepping on Nakata Kashihiko’s heartbeat.
“Meal time!”
Haruko’s crisp voice rang like a starter gun. The POWs dropped tools, swarming to line up orderly before the basins.
Not everyone was happy, though; Watanabe and Kobayashi, who once raped Haruko, shrank to the back, hiding timidly.
Nakata Kashihiko didn’t move. He stood, gazing possessively at his woman. He knew she’d come.
Sure enough, after serving several POWs, Haruko carried a separate, heftier lunchbox, weaving through the crowd straight to him.
Her face held a professional sweet smile, but her watery eyes sparkled with intimacy and mischief only Nakata Kashihiko could read.
“Mr. Nakata, time to eat.”
She handed over the box, her voice gentle enough to wring water.
Inside, besides sorghum rice and steamed buns, a golden, sizzling, oil-dripping Spam luncheon meat emitted sinful, tempting aroma.
“Thanks.” Nakata Kashihiko took it, voice deliberately steady.
As she handed it, Haruko leaned closer naturally. Her hand “accidentally” slipped, swiftly tucking a handkerchief-wrapped package into his baggy pants pocket.
Her soft fingers, through fabric, left a brief, scorching touch on his outer thigh—like a mild current zapping through him, recalling their wild, entwined nights.
Haruko withdrew quickly, winking playfully, lips to his ear in a wet, breathy whisper only they could hear: “Chocolate and cookies to recharge you. And your favorite Camel cigarettes… tonight, old spot. I… miss you.”
She blushed faintly, stepping back to her demure nurse role, returning to the crowd—as if that bold invitation was Nakata Kashihiko’s illusion.
Nakata Kashihiko gripped the warm box; the pocket package’s presence was intense. He felt the chocolate’s hardness, cookies’ shape, cigarettes’ edges clearly.
These were more than food and luxuries—proof of his bond with Haruko, her unabashed love and desire.
Watching her busy, pert figure in the crowd, the last shackle named “loyalty to the Emperor” in his heart snapped with a “crack.”
The Emperor was far in Tokyo; this woman bringing warmth, food, and ultimate carnal pleasure was right here.
Whom to pledge loyalty to was no longer a question needing thought.
