CHAPTER 8 : COMMANDER—GIMME A RIFLE!

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　　Zhou’s battalion had stumbled upon a Jap scout platoon—50-strong, advancing from Jiujiang. With 250 men clattering along, half-green recruits babbling nonstop, they’d blundered into the enemy’s sights. By the time Zhang Degang reported, the Japs had swarmed the opposite ravine. Machine guns jammed into gullies; foxholes scarred the earth. Zhou knew: his rookies needed a win to hold their nerve. Only annihilation would cut a path home.

　　One-twenty veterans against fifty Japs? Seemed more than sufficient. What became of it—smoke would tell. Post-bombing, a hundred veterans remained. Rifles and bayonets gleamed. A lone light machine gun. Ammo? Not ideal. Zhou’s miscalculation stung—never expecting Japs this deep inland. Zhang Degang slapped his bayonet. “Commander! We'll butcher these devils with cold steel alone!”

　　Zhou scanned through binoculars. Japs lay dug into gullies—natural fortress. "Goddamn cunning devils!" he spat. "Set an ambush knowing we’d advance!" Zhang Degang gripped his rifle. "Bombing scared the recruit eggs shitless. Need a morale boost from this fight."

　　Zhou’s eyes narrowed. "Why wait? Fifty fucking Japs—we fear them? How’d you crack this nut?" Zhang chuckled coldly. "Stop hiding rookies behind vets. Throw them up front—survivors make elite troops."

　　"Sending lambs to slaughter?" Zhou snapped. "Tactics. Annihilation. Now." Zhang hesitated. "Charge head-on? Japs got mortars and light machine guns. That kill zone’s suicide." "Your play?" "Three-pronged: feint center, flank left and right. Pincer crush."

　　Zhou nodded. "I’ll lead fifty feinting center. You and Zhong Fang flank. Move!" Zhang suddenly scanned the ranks. "Where’s that recruit egg Dong San-Shao?" Zhou glanced around—no sign of the trio by the riverbank below the slope. "Why ask?" "Just noticed both Dongs missing." "Forget those treasures!" Zhou growled. "Butcher these Japs first. They’re hiding somewhere."

　　Zhang Degang's curse cut through the gun-smell: "New blood always pisses itself at the first cannon roar." Zhou didn't glance up from his binoculars. "Your trousers weren't dry either, back at Nanjing." The scar on Zhang's cheek writhed like a centipede as he grinned.

　　Deployment flowed. Zhang and Zhong peeled left and right with their hybrid squads. Zhou's fifty veterans inched forward through corpse-littered ditches, earth clotting their uniforms.

　　By the river, three shadows stirred in the reeds. "Why split three ways?" Yaoting's whisper barely disturbed the marsh grass. Zhang Facai's callused hand shoved him. "Battle chess! Stop cowering!"

　　Yaoting erupted from cover, roaring: "GODS' SAKES! HIDING LIKE RATS WHILE DEVILS BREATHE DOWN OUR NECKS!" San-Shao followed—loyalty overriding the sour bile in his throat.

　　Dawn bled pink over stone ridges where Jap rifle barrels nested like venomous snakes. Machine guns stuttered. Bullets knifed through dust—close enough to taste, too far to kill.

　　Yaoting scrambled to Zhou's position, mud sluicing off his knees. "Dong Yaoting and San-Shao reporting! With Private Zhang!" Zhou spat without turning. "Thought the maggots got you. Grab iron or get gone." "Sir!" Yaoting hit the dirt, fingers slipping on his bayonet's sweat-slicked grip.

　　"When I charge," Zhou snapped, "tread on my shadow. Saving recruits—not coddling you." San-Shao blurted: "Commander... you talk like my old man back home."

　　CRUMP-CRUMP-CRUMP! Mortars coughed in the distance. Three heartbeats—SCREEEE—Men vanished into crimson mist before they could scatter.

　　San-Shao's howl tore his throat: "COMMANDER! A RIFLE! NOW!" "Pluck one from the dead!" Both Dongs wrenched Arisakas from still-warm hands, walnut stocks slick with blood. Yaoting jerked his chin toward the ridge. "Silence those mortars!"

　　San-Shao rolled sideways, left eye squinting through the gun's notch rear sight—CRACK! Instinctive. Unaimed. "Wasting rounds!" Zhou began, but Yaoting gripped his arm.

　　Binoculars froze at Zhou's eyes. The distant mortar crew collapsed like puppets with cut strings. One man swayed—a dark hole flowering between his eyebrows. Zhou's voice turned razor-edged: "...Do it again." CRACK! Another gunner folded, his skull snapping back.

　　Zhou bellowed: "HAO! Dong San-Shao! PICK THEM CLEAN!" San-Shao didn’t glance up. "Commander, need a loader. This bolt-work eats seconds." "Yaoting!" Zhou’s eyes flashed. "You load for him!"

　　"No!" San-Shao’s refusal cracked like a whip. "He’s Young Master—not my servant!" Zhou’s brows knotted. "Why not?" "Pride!" San-Shao snapped, already ejecting a smoking cartridge.

　　Zhou signaled Zhang Facai. "You load. Fast!" Zhang stared, dumbstruck—until San-Shao’s grin cut through gunsmoke: "Move your ass!" Yaoting pressed closer. "San-Shao. My order: I load."

　　Zhou choked back laughter—these clowns! A damned sideshow act! He lifted binoculars, mesmerized by the death-dance unfolding.

　　Zhang Facai fed rounds left-handed; Yaoting waited right-side. San-Shao fired→ejected→tossed rifle left→grabbed Yaoting’s loaded gun→fired. Whirl of loading→shooting→tossing→grabbing —Zhang dripping sweat, Yaoting half-idle.

　　Five shots per rifle. San-Shao’s rhythm devoured Zhang’s speed. Each crack dropped a Jap. Within five minutes: all mortar crews dead. Every bullet a third eye.

　　"Where’d this farmboy learn this?" Zhou’s mind raced. San-Shao shifted to infantry. Crack. Another devil down. "DEADLY!" Zhou roared. Yaoting beamed. "Better than hunting birds, eh?"

　　San-Shao laughed, hot brass kissing his cheek. "Japs are cottage geese in my sights!" Zhang gasped, slippery with sweat and rage. "Damn San-Shao! Slower—or make Yaoting load too! Bully!"