Chapter 25: When You Are Weak, Even Anger Becomes a Joke

As Zhang Shan departed from the General Staff Headquarters, Anna, his adjutant, reminded him, "Your Highness, you could have obtained the Emperor's permission before issuing such an order."

Zhang Shan shook his head. "When you are weak, even your anger is a joke. This is the collective will of the officer corps; without something happening, there can be no significant change."

He was still too weak, and all the power he currently possessed stemmed solely from the authorization of his doting father.

Not long after, Zhang Shan contacted Bagen. As his earliest subordinate, Bagen, a Buryat, was quite obedient. Without Prince Andrei's patronage, someone like Bagen, who had just joined the army, would never have received any attention. He regarded his unit entirely as the Prince's private army. After several successful raids on Yamato supply troops, his force had rapidly expanded to over two thousand men, each equipped with two horses.

Zhang Shan had even found a way to provide each of them with a rifle, 30 rounds of ammunition, a hand grenade, and a light machine gun for every hundred men. This configuration alone was superior to the equipment of the Yakus regular cavalry. Throughout the Far East, almost every division suffered from a shortage of rifles; this was not something that could be resolved overnight. In the span of a month, Zhang Shan had procured two divisions' worth of Kar98s, plus two divisions' worth of miscellaneous weaponry—a feat that seemed like a miracle to others. Compared to the dozen or so Mongol cavalry divisions waiting for re-equipment, this private army of the Prince was the quintessential example of bypassing the rules.

"Respected Highness, Bagen and all the soldiers of the First Cavalry Brigade of Lanuode send their greetings."

"Bagen, I have an important mission for you."

"Your Highness, we will complete the mission, even if it costs us our lives."

Despite his words, Bagen felt bitter once he heard the nature of the order. *Your Highness, we are herdsmen! How are we supposed to know how to plow fields?*

Though he thought this, Bagen decided to comply. After all, the great Prince had not forced him to charge into a Yamato supply station fortified with machine guns and artillery. If plowing a few stretches of road with a plow attached to a carriage could win the favor of the most noble man in the Far East, there was nothing to hesitate about.

Before long, the Bagen Cavalry Regiment, which had been lurking near Lanuode for guerrilla warfare, maneuvered toward the direction of Red Tower City.

June 1st.

A massive Yamato transport group was departing from a supply station, heading toward the front lines at Red Tower City. To guard against harassment by the Racian cavalry, the Commander-in-Chief of the Guanbei Army, Honda, had ordered the construction of a supply station with semi-permanent fortifications every 20 kilometers along the route to the front.

Each station was garrisoned by a Type-C division's guard brigade. The quality of these brigades was poor, and their scale was far inferior to a regular brigade, consisting of only about three thousand men, often under-strength. Equipped with machine guns, anti-aircraft guns, and some small-caliber anti-tank guns, these brigades were sufficiently powerful for defensive purposes.

20 kilometers was neither far nor near, and they were not afraid of being ambushed because, generally, every three supply stations were assigned a standard cavalry brigade for mobile defense. Logically, nothing should have gone wrong.

But on this day, Major Shibata, who was in charge of the transport, discovered to his astonishment that the perfectly fine dirt road had been plowed to ruin by the enemy. Deep, crisscrossing furrows, some as deep as half a meter, stretched across the path. Seen from a distance, it looked as if a giant hellhound sent from the underworld had repeatedly raked its claws across several miles of the dirt road.

"Baka! Do they think such a trivial matter can stop us? Change course! Move through the grass on the side!"

The Yamato believed the grasslands to be flat and level, where tanks and armored vehicles could gallop at will. In reality, the grassland was full of potholes and muddy pits, along with various tangled clumps of grass. Grass, that tenacious plant, could use its rich root system to bind a large chunk of mud into a "grass knot" hard enough to bruise a foot. Normally, people and horses could pass without issue, but it had just rained, and the grassland was a sea of mud.

As soon as the Yamato Type 92 heavy armored vehicle stepped off the road and onto the muddy grass, it had barely gone a hundred meters when a clear clanking sound emanated from under the chassis. This heavy armored vehicle, equipped with a 6-cylinder air-cooled gasoline engine and 85 horsepower, had actually broken down.

"Baka?!" Major Shibata was furious. "What happened now?"

The scolded subordinate went over with the engineers to investigate. Soon after, he shouted, "Sir, the vehicle's suspension system has been damaged."

Bad luck! Shibata felt incredibly frustrated. "Go around! Go around! The convoy will continue to move; leave one engineer behind, and let them catch up once it's fixed."

His convoy seemed cursed. In just one kilometer of muddy grassland, half of the dozen armored vehicles and three trucks had broken down. When he learned this was a design flaw from a domestic manufacturer, he had nowhere to vent his rage.

The weather in Red Tower Province in June was quite bizarre. It could be 10 degrees Celsius at midnight, only to soar to a scorching 37 degrees by noon. This was why Shibata had set out early in the morning—to avoid the deadly heat. When the 37-degree sun beat down, each armored vehicle became a terrifying oven, roasting the flesh of the Yamato soldiers.

Just as they were struggling in the mud, a harsh buzzing sound came from the sky.

"Ah! It's the Racian warplanes!"

"Oh, Amaterasu! Protect me!"

High above, Profiev, piloting a brand-new I-16 fighter, whistled happily. The open cockpit was filled with the hot June wind. While this was usually a torment for a pilot, the discovery of the enemy turned it into a burning excitement in the Racian pilot's heart.

Profiev laughed loudly. "The coordinates and landmarks Bagen provided were actually accurate! Let's thank the Prince for this generous gift! Brothers, start the hunt!"

"Ooooo—" The communication channel was filled with wild yells.

The convoy struggling in the mud below was even more ridiculous than the fixed targets used by novice pilots. The wooden fuselage of the I-16 vibrated as it dove, the propellers churning up a sharp whistling sound in the air. The Yamato armored vehicles on the ground became increasingly clear in his field of vision; even the rivets on the tops of the vehicles rapidly enlarged in his gunsight.

The Yamato soldiers below cried out in despair: "Enemy planes! Take cover!"

In this era, there was almost no such thing as a field anti-aircraft system. The only anti-aircraft weapon on the Type 92 armored vehicle was the Type 91 6.5mm machine gun. It would be an exaggeration to say this thing had any effect on the I-16; it was effectively useless. The insane Racians had covered the primary front section of the fuselage with 8mm thick hard aluminum plating. This meant that unless the machine gunner could hit the pilot in the head while the plane was moving at nearly 500 kilometers per hour, the best they could do was produce a few sparks for entertainment.

"Wahoo—" Profiev felt his blood boiling.

The moment he pressed the trigger, the warbird's wings spewed four tongues of fire—two large and two small. Never mind the newly installed 20mm cannons on the plane; even the 12.7mm machine guns were an absolute, irresistible violence against the pathetic 6mm steel plates of the Type 92.

To be hit was to die!

The moment the cannon shell penetrated the top of the first armored vehicle, blood erupted in a deep red mist inside the scorching steel plate. The next instant, the blast wave from the exploding fuel tank and ammunition blew the massive iron coffin to pieces.

Profiev jerked the control stick upward. He couldn't be bothered to keep firing his precious cannon shells; following the direction of the convoy, he poured machine gun fire along the line.

"Ahhh!"

"Mama—"

Among the convoy struggling in the mud, there were plenty of "smart" people who tried to drive away to escape, but they were simply too slow. They had no chance of escaping this web of death, woven from the sparks and bullet trajectories of over twenty fighter planes.

"Wow, is this the Yamato Army? This military merit is easier to earn than training," came the happy laughter of a novice pilot over the Racian squadron's communication channel.

Amidst the laughter, the I-16 squadron dove repeatedly, tearing the logistics soldiers attempting to abandon their vehicles—along with the canvas covers of their trucks—into shreds. When the aerial camera completed its eighth exposure, the oil-stained goggles finally reflected the full panorama of the Yamato supply team's collapse. All the armored vehicles were overturned and burning in the muddy grass, the barrels of the 37mm anti-aircraft guns were twisted toward the sky, and the ammunition boxes scattered across the grass looked like a destroyed ant hill.