Canteen System Assistance Notes

On that hastily constructed defensive position, the first things to be illuminated were two Type 92 infantry guns firing continuously behind their shields, then a "pheasant neck" mounted on a cart, followed by a number of Japanese soldiers firing from a kneeling position; and finally, the flashes of the magnesium flares revealed a number of horses and Japanese soldiers struggling to cross the Zhuozhang River as they struggled to reach the river.

Damn, the devils are running away!

Chapter 87: It's Like a Repeat

"The devils are trying to escape!"

Seconds after the inaccurate shells landed on the steep cliff, Wu Jin, commanding the fire platoon, understood what was happening. The bombardment had only injured a few recruits who had been firing through their noses; captured Japanese helmets had shielded them from the shrapnel, but it had only knocked the men unconscious. The subsequent direct fire from the heavy machine guns had completely pierced the slope, leaving no one on the opposite slope unharmed.

This was suppressive fire, a move the Japs used to buy time. The Eighth Route Army's artillery observation area on the flank of the valley was blocked by the explosions and smoke. "How do we run, Platoon Leader Wu?"

The comrades around him hadn't reacted yet, "How can the devils escape like this?"

In his view, the Japanese army, now surrounded on three sides, their formation compressed, and cut into three sections by the assault team, were already talking and walking corpses. It was only a matter of time before they were completely wiped out. "Run to the river!"

Wu Jin didn't want to say more. He rushed to the phone connected to the artillery company, picked up the phone and pressed the "0" key. This new phone did not require a crank handle, which made him very uncomfortable. "In the river? Platoon Leader Wu!" The comrade was a local. "The Zhuozhang River is impossible to cross. At this time of year, the water is up to a person's neck. Running into the river at night, the Japanese want to die.

oh!"

As soon as he finished speaking, he realized that the depth of the Zhuozhang River was deceptive—behind the shallows on the riverbank was a U-shaped riverbed carved by turbidity and mountain torrents, and the depth increased suddenly—but this information was only known to those who had lived in the area for many years. How could the invading army, who had just arrived, know this?

Moreover, even if they knew, do they have any choice?

After a few beeps, the call was connected. After a brief communication, Wu Jin took over the duties of the front-line artillery observer.

"All Company Pause! Platoon, record the parameters of Target Number Five!"

The bombardment ceased, leaving only the sounds of machine gunfire and Japanese artillery fire. Wu Jin glanced at the map illuminated by the backlight and closed his eyes, seeming to recall or estimate something.

Now, the entire regiment's artillery fire will be temporarily stopped and they will obey his command.

"Grenade, instantaneous fuse, No. 5 charge, scale 753, base direction unchanged, change distance three times, forward one, forward two! Five rounds each in rapid succession!"

The sound of mortar shells exploding rang out again.

The Japanese were surprised to find that the artillery fire that had been chasing the assembled crowds and killing people had changed its method. These mortar shells, which were not much more powerful than mountain artillery, actually began to shoot out neat walls of fire, and then at intervals of about ten meters,

Separate, gradually push forward and extend.

After the soldiers who tried to go around to the rear were beaten back by the Eighth Route Army who rushed down at some point, with the artillery fire constantly approaching, the entire Japanese army fought and retreated, and was gradually suppressed to the shallow water of the river beach.

He was forced to wade into the rushing Zhuozhang River, staggering through the water as he walked towards the other side.

At this moment, in the dark night on the other side of the Zhuozhang River, flashing flares rose again.

Red-red-red.

Immediately afterwards, gunfire erupted from the other side. Several bright orange bullets flew in at an intangible speed, striking the 92mm infantry guns that were conducting suppressive fire on an extremely low trajectory. A violent burst of fire erupted as the shells detonated, illuminating the night sky with soaring fireballs.

This is the 771st Regiment making a detour on the other side of the river!

They had brought the 129th Division's four Type 45 anti-tank guns, and, using the continuous flares fired by the 689th Regiment, began leisurely night target practice against the Japanese troops, who were being cut and compressed under the spotlight. The infantry artillery squadron, firing non-stop, was clearly the most conspicuous target.

With a flash of fire, the second 92mm infantry gun flew into the air. Although the fleeing gun crew had escaped the bombardment, they could not survive for long. The other soldiers of the 771st Regiment were deployed in battle formation, launching an almost standard "mid-crossing attack" against the Japanese troops struggling in the Zhuozhang River.

Flying bullets, trailing gleaming traces, spread out in a four-pronged dragnet, completely blocking all escape routes for the Japanese. Throughout history, both in China and abroad, this level of combat had been a near certainty for the trapped Japanese troops, desperately trying to escape. Perhaps only the divine intervention of Amaterasu could save them.

But in this ancient land, Amaterasu doesn't care!

After all their efforts to escape were shattered, this Japanese army team, which had been hungry for three days, finally collapsed.

The Japanese artillery barrage had been completely crushed. Wu Jin crept up the cliff's ridge and looked out. The blocking troops on Daijia La had crushed the devil's desperate final charge and launched a counterattack. There were almost no Japanese soldiers left standing on the riverbank. The remaining ones were struggling to float in the water, the water deep enough to cover their chests and the turbulent current rapidly robbing them of their remaining strength.

Occasionally, a flare would be fired, emitting a white magnesium light, illuminating a circular area. Then, the Japanese troops in the entire illuminated area would be subjected to intensive fire from all directions. Amidst the explosions and the splashes of bullets falling into the water, some sank, while others floated on the surface, no longer moving.

Wu Jin felt as if the river in front of him was burning.

He had seen this blood-stained flame and water before, when he was just an ordinary soldier, running across a rickety pontoon bridge under intense enemy fire. His comrades, struck by stray bullets and shrapnel, suddenly collapsed, falling into the turbulent river, swept away by the current, and disappeared.

After that battle, the Red Army's ranks were reduced by more than half, and those missing were all comrades he knew and didn't know, comrades he could name and those he couldn't.

Now, the situation seemed to have been completely reversed. With excellent tactical coordination and enhanced equipment and logistics, the Eighth Route Army possessed the advantage in firepower density. Supported by intelligence and a pre-planned battlefield, the four participating regiments, with overwhelming force, destroyed more than three battalions of the Japanese 117th Regiment, completely severing the "finger" of the Japanese army in the "Nine-Way Siege."

He didn't feel nauseous or queasy, even when faced with such a tragic scene. Wu Jin had seen even more tragic things before, and the nature of these two scenes was completely different: they belonged to wars of different natures, so how could they be simply compared?

Wu Jin shook his head violently, trying to clear the memory from his mind. Now was not the time for sentimental feelings. He picked up the receiver, connected to the artillery battery, and ordered a halt to the bombardment, firing only a few flares—the situation was settled, no need to waste ammunition.

After all, life has to go on, and there is still a long way to go in the battle. Life has to go on.

Chapter 88 A Flagpole

After destroying the 117th Regiment, the guerrillas on the periphery reported that the 105th Regiment, which was closest to Changle Village, was being harassed and destroyed.

Besides, there is a third army ahead, which gives us at least three days to fight.

Combined with the torrential downpour of last night's attack, the entire encirclement and annihilation operation took less than two hours, and the Radio Department didn't even pick up the farewell message from the 117th Regiment.

In that situation, it would be impossible to set up the antenna of a shortwave radio station.

Tiechui and Wu Jin's unit had been dispatched to the periphery to carry out blocking and guard duties, guarding against any unexpected Japanese action that might threaten our exposed position. General Peng's assessment was that the loud noise last night must have exposed the main force of the Eighth Route Army.

However, the 129th Division felt it was unacceptable if it did not clean up the battlefield where an entire regiment was almost annihilated.

The task of cleaning up the battlefield was assigned to the two battalions that served as reserves last night. After dawn, on the riverbank where black smoke was still rising, the soldiers of the two battalions, carrying bags on their backs, lined up in long queues with the baggage teams of each regiment and began a "mopping-up search" of the entire battlefield.

One or two empty bullet shells, three or four broken waist bags, five or six... Ugh, disgusting, this is a corpse...

The soldiers in the front row muttered to themselves as they picked up scattered bullet casings and put them in their front pockets. Occasionally, someone would find a rifle clip or a machine gun magazine, quickly collecting it as if it were a treasure, and then handing it over to the carts and wheelbarrows following behind.

It is said that all captured items must be handed over, so it is always right to hand them over to your own troops.

The soldiers always had this little trick: bullet casings could be used for reloading, and the bridge plates, magazines, and bullet plates were all reusable supplies. And those scattered weapons, equipment, and helmets, if damaged, could be collected by the Eighth Route Army. It wasn't long before these supplies would find their way into newly armed local troops and guerrilla units, becoming a powerful force against the Japanese invaders. These tasks were tiring, so let our regiment take care of them!

The song goes like this: "We have no guns and no cannons, but the enemy makes them for us." The Eighth Route Army, which was able to regularize and equip its main forces with Soviet-made weapons and concentrate ammunition of the same caliber on regimental-level units, would not give up using the captured Japanese weapons.

It must be said that the People's Liberation Army was remarkably efficient in this environment, where "leaving no thread behind" was crucial. Three battalions, totaling over 3,000 Japanese troops, were annihilated on this narrow, long riverbank. The amount of equipment and supplies that needed to be cleared was unimaginable. As they marched, several large carts were quickly filled, and they hadn't even covered half of the battlefield.

In this area alone, there are at least 500 rifles and 50 light machine guns, not counting the damaged ones!

Many of the new soldiers were beaming with smiles. Such bountiful spoils gave them a feeling of having "struck a fortune." The veterans, however, were much calmer: "That's what annihilation warfare is like. Although it's difficult and the enemy will fight desperately, once we win and control the battlefield, the battle will be a "positive return," with revenue exceeding expenditure." During the Long March, our army obtained almost all its ammunition and supplies in this way.

But right now, this capacity was indeed a bit insufficient. Everyone looked up and around, hoping to find a large cart that was not already occupied.

The riverbank looked like a construction site. The logistics teams of the 129th and part of the 115th Divisions, as well as the regimental baggage teams, had all arrived, bringing with them donkey carts, horse carts, and a few precious motor vehicles, transporting supplies back and forth. Finding a vehicle was truly difficult.

The soldiers present could only think of a solution on their own, and soon they came up with a conclusion: first transport the collected captured materials together, then concentrate them in one place and pile them up according to their categories, and let the transport vehicles go directly to the collection point to collect them; as for the necessary means of transportation, the result of several soldiers meeting was to tie the legs of the taken-off Japanese trousers, then find a stick, or use a rifle to pick them up, to make a simple shoulder pole.

Anyway, so many Japanese soldiers' bodies had to be dealt with: On the slightly higher places on the riverbank, many soldiers were wearing masks, digging large pits, cutting firewood, and so on.

Prepare to build a simple cupola with mud bricks, and use these

The bodies of the 100 were purified with fire, and finally the kiln was knocked down and buried collectively. If such bodies were allowed to rot, they would only breed disease and pollute water sources; incidentally,

It also prevents the Japanese soldiers from being exposed to the wilderness and giving them a little basic respect.

Great treatment.

Of course, respect is given to the dead, not to the living.

They immediately started to look for scattered Japanese trousers, and used sticks or damaged rifles to mount horses and make some shoulder poles.

But even so, it was hard to find intact pants. The fighting last night was so intense that even the veteran Red Army soldiers had never seen such a high intensity of fire. The pants they did find were either riddled with bullet holes or tattered. The unfortunate ones were even stained with yellow mud, making them completely unsuitable for use as cloth bags. There were also very few intact sticks. Some had been broken by the explosion, while others had been sliced ​​in half by some flying shrapnel.

What should we do today? One cannot die from holding his urine. This thing is right in front of him. How can he let it go just because he cannot get it? Everyone present wished that they could grow two more hands, or turn into Sun Wukong who could pluck out his hair and turn into a monkey, so that he could snore and clean up everything that needed to be cleaned on the battlefield.

"Captain! I found a stick here!"

Suddenly someone shouted, and the platoon leader, who was leading the cleaning, was overjoyed and rushed over. He saw the soldier standing in a pile of paper scraps and mud, holding a long stick with a broken rope hanging from one end.

This... should be the Japanese headquarters from last night, right? I heard that after the infantry guns were blown away by the .45mm cannon, this place was given special attention because the heavily protected officer column was so conspicuous. The regimental radio department had come here once before, hoping to find something useful, but had to leave disappointed - after the ardent attention of the .45mm cannons, the .82mm mortars, the .60mm mortars, and even the heavy machine guns, there was almost nothing left.

"Wow, this is a really good stick!"

Although no one knew how the stick had survived, it didn't stop everyone from preparing to use it as a shoulder pole. Just as someone brought in a pair of Japanese military trousers and was tying a knot on the trouser leg, someone exclaimed, "Hey! Look, the top of this stick is probably gilded!"

After washing away the sludge, a golden "large chrysanthemum" (M) was revealed, firmly embedded in one end of the stick. The rope attached to the stick, though broken at one end by something, was still securely tied to the large gilded head at the other. Furthermore, despite being stained, the "rope" didn't seem to be much of a rope at all.

It looks like... the tassel on the lion's chin during the lion dance.

Hey, isn't this a Japanese flagpole?

Chapter 89 Nightmare Night

Miki Taro was a private, the kind that could be recruited with just a piece of red paper, and was the most basic component of the Japanese infantry.

He had been slapped in the face and kicked countless times with leather shoes during training. He had never even seen the red bean cakes distributed during festivals. Half of his salary had to be saved, and he could only spend it in the "military consumption center" where the quality was low and the prices were high. However, Miki Taro did not resist too fiercely. He completed the arduous training as much as possible with guaranteed quality and quantity, and tried his best to meet the demands of those veterans who were making things difficult for him. In the end, he won a position in the army where he was not bullied.

In any case, being a soldier is better than farming at home and paying expensive rent, or dying of tuberculosis in a damp and stuffy silk factory like my sisters.

In 37, he enlisted in the 117th Regiment of the 25th Brigade and marched south with his unit. Fortunately, despite the arduous battles from the enemy's city of Shijiu, Miki Taro remained unscathed. His most dangerous encounter came when a grenade landed near him—but it didn't explode. Upon inspection, he discovered that his opponent hadn't pulled the safety pin, saving his life.

Miki Taro felt that the amulet his mother had given him had worked—that her prayers must have been heard by one of the eight million gods, who had blessed him with peace and safety in this foreign land. All this had happened until last night.

When the 117th Regiment was cut into three sections, surrounded on three sides and under crossfire, Mikitaro was marching at the front of the group. When the continuous explosions made everyone dizzy and the teammates in the front and back rows were hit by a torrent of fire, he was one of the first to react.

After several rolls, he hid behind a large rock on the riverbank. His sergeant, holding his command knife, shouted loudly and blew his whistle, demanding that all soldiers in the squad gather and fight back against the enemy.

So who was the enemy? Was it the Shancheng Army? Or did we really encounter the main force of the Eighth Route Army?

Mikitaro felt his sanity evaporating. He gritted his teeth, overcoming the muscle memory left over from years of training, and lay down obediently on the wet river surface. Just as he had gotten himself firmly down, a flashing flare flew out of the night and landed above his squad. Then, a cascade of orange fire overwhelmed the squad, drowning the commanding sergeant.

"Enemy attack! Enemy attack! All teams..."

“Retreat! Retreat!”

"Gentlemen! Charge! Charge..."

The clashing blasts of grenade explosions drowned out the conflicting orders. Some squads managed to rally, only to be blasted into the air by enemy fire. Others fought back desperately from the flank, only to be swept away by the same stream of fire and wiped out. I was just a private, less than a year into the service! Why was I having to endure all this?

A shell landed not far from him. All the sounds vanished in an instant. Mikitaro felt something scalding hot splash onto his body. Blood, smoke, and sticky steam rushed into his nostrils. Ah, ah!

He jumped up, dropped his weapon, turned around and ran backwards. The slippery riverbed and the temporary loss of balance made his running posture twisted and weird. One foot was deep and the other was shallow. Mikitaro fell and got up, fell and got up, staggered towards the dark Zhuozhang River. A string of bullets splashed around him, making a lot of splashes in the water, but fortunately none of them hit him.

Then, Mikitaro's feet slipped and he fell into the deep water.

Everything around him felt like a nightmare, a stark contrast to the smooth sailing of the previous battles. Honestly, Mikitaro didn't find the previous battles particularly difficult, merely exhausting, with narrow escapes, even less formidable than the challenges faced by veteran soldiers during training. After defeating the Nationalist army in the southern mountain fortresses, the spoils were often plentiful. He occasionally found chicken and pork to eat during the pursuit after defeating a unit.

Until now.

When did this nightmare begin? Did it begin a few days ago, when we were preparing to march? Or did it begin a few days ago, when the attack failed, we could not find any trace of the enemy, and the daily supply shortages continued to dwindle?

Miki Taro felt himself thrashing in the water. He clung tightly to a buoyant object, instinctively flapping his wings. Eventually, unable to move, he could only cling to the object, keeping his head afloat. In his blurry vision, the flames and black smoke gradually receded, the green and budding forests gradually receded, and occasionally, a village with smoke rising from cooking fires could be seen.

Mom... For some reason, he thought of his hometown, a small mountain village at the foot of Mount Fuji. There was also a stream there. In April, he was probably like a cherry blossom petal, floating down the stream. Why did I come here?

"Look! There's a live one!"

The river gradually slowed down, and Miki heard someone on the shore shouting in Japanese. He turned his head woodenly with great effort and waved his hands, but no sound came out. Fortunately, someone on the shore took off his clothes, tied a rope, jumped into the water, and pulled himself ashore.

There was a fire on the shore, and a group of soldiers were working. Miki sat in front of the fire, wrapped in his coat, drinking the hot water someone handed him. He felt his spirit flow from the teacup into his stomach. He trembled and hugged the scalding kettle, but then let go because of the heat.

There were many people lying around, and he was the only Japanese soldier who was salvaged and still able to sit.

"Hey! Hey! Which unit are you from?"

"Sir..." Miki Taro answered like a machine, "I...I am...Private First Class of the 2nd Company of the 1st Battalion of the 117th Regiment... Miki Taro." "What's your regiment?"

"They were hit... they were drowned by countless shells and bullets... they were all killed... they were all dead..."

Memories of last night flooded back, and that bad feeling returned. He suddenly felt nauseous and began to dry heave, but nothing came out. He hadn't eaten anything decent in almost three days. Fortunately, the amulet in his chest pocket was still there. Mikitaro finally regained some of his composure. "Sir, our regiment has been surrounded by the enemy... The enemy has countless machine guns and artillery, and their numbers are more than ten to ours... Everyone in the regiment was overwhelmed almost instantly..."

"Bagaya Road!"

Someone raised his hand and almost hit it, but the people around him quickly stopped him and tried to persuade him. Finally, the leader asked: "Do you know who the enemy you are facing is?" "Ah..."

Who could the enemy be? Miki Taro tried to recall what happened last night, but it was like a nightmare, and he was afraid to search his memory again. Yamashiro National Army? No,

The Shancheng Army cannot defeat us, and that place is not the Shancheng Army’s territory; the Eighth Route Army

Red Army? I've heard the Eighth Route Army is very powerful, but how did they have so many artillery pieces to wipe out nearly three battalions, over 3,000 people, so quickly? Impossible...

Suddenly, as if he had thought of something, he blurted out: "Chilu! So terrifying... It must be the Chilu Army! It was the Chilu who attacked us!"

Chapter 90: After victory, the road ahead is long and arduous

With the destruction of the 117th Regiment, the siege and suppression campaign in southeastern Shanxi came to an end. The annihilation of these three battalions, including the regimental headquarters, the supply train, and the infantry artillery squadron, completely broke the Japanese encirclement and even deterred several other nearby Japanese troops—we came to fight the main force of the Eighth Route Army, not to die! The 105th Regiment, closest to the battlefield, did not even dare to force its way through the harassing 129th Division Special Forces Regiment and guerrillas to come to the rescue (collect the bodies). After the order to retreat was issued, they could only fight and retreat all the way back to the railway line in disgrace.

Because our army controlled the battlefield, the casualties of both our side in the Battle of Changle Village were clearly counted: in the short hours from late night of April 15 to early morning of April 16, our army wiped out more than 3300 Japanese troops and more than 300 Korean baggage soldiers. In addition, some enemies jumped into the water to escape. Our army only confirmed about 100 bodies and was unable to determine the life or death of the last nearly 100 people.

Throughout the battle, there was no hand-to-hand combat with bayonets, the fighting was short and undelayed, and our army's firepower was greatly enhanced compared with history. A total of about 300 of our soldiers were killed and about 600 were injured, with a total casualties of less than 1000.