Chapter 6: The Great Retreat

The tense freight cars were, of course, not meant for the prisoners to ride in.

With only eight train cars, trying to evacuate the remaining three thousand people from Lanwude City was still far too cramped. The original freight cars were somewhat better; by squeezing people in, one car could forcibly hold five hundred individuals. Passenger cars were a different matter entirely—under the tables, on the overhead racks, in the aisles, even the ceiling was packed with people.

Beneath the seats, not only were people stuffed in, but some herders even shoved lambs down there.

To make room, the civil affairs officers and soldiers ordered the forced disposal of many delicate belongings, which sparked another round of wailing and cries.

The chaos was a cacophony of curses and pleas from people, the bleating of lambs, and every other kind of noise imaginable.

Watching a pile of pots and jars being roughly tossed out of the cars to cram in more people, Zhang Shan felt a sour taste in his mouth.

“If I were to give up my car...” he began.

“No! Your Highness, you’d better abandon that terrible idea immediately,” Natalie said, staring seriously into Zhang Shan’s eyes. “We, Rasia, are the suzerain state of these nomads. Your authority comes from your dignity. If you lower yourself, these nomads might turn into bandits and strike against you. After all, they have almost nothing left.”

Zhang Shan fell silent for a moment, realizing he was starting to empathize with this damned world. “You’re right.”

Fortunately, many herders had horses, and they rode their own mounts to drive their herds northward.

The entire train station was a scene of military chaos.

But there were exceptions.

A group of herders led by Bagen found Sergei and then contacted Zhang Shan.

“Are you enlisting?” Zhang Shan narrowed his eyes, looking at the herders kneeling before him.

Bagen’s eyes were bloodshot, tears at the corners, his rough face twitching involuntarily. “Your Highness Beria! Please accept us! Those damned devils destroyed our homeland. If we don’t avenge this, we’re not men!”

Zhang Shan noticed many herders eyeing the rifles surrendered by the prisoners not far away.

This time, a twitch appeared at the corner of Zhang Shan’s mouth.

He truly didn’t know whether he had traveled through time or hadn’t completed the journey.

The Yamato people of this other world used a heavily modified version of the famous “Type 37 Arisaka” rifle—why not the “Type 38”?

Sigh! If you’ve already traveled through time and this world has changed like this, who is Zhang Shan supposed to ask?

This version of the Type 37 Arisaka was 1,280 millimeters long, and with the bayonet attached, about 1.8 meters. The captured devils averaged only 1.55 meters tall, typical of a Type B division standard. The bayonet-equipped Type 37 was taller than the men themselves.

The key was to compare it with something else: compared to the Mosin series rifles used by Rasia, this one was far too cumbersome.

After all, Rasia’s mainstream rifle was the newer Mosin carbine, just 1,020 millimeters in length—lightweight and more reliable.

There’s a classic saying among gun enthusiasts: “If you find a World War II Mosin-Nagant in the dirt, last serviced eighty years ago, bang! It still fires!”

If given a choice, the Mosin series would definitely be preferred.

Hadn’t Zhang Shan seen those cowards who lost their guns sneak back to retrieve them from the captured enemy soldiers?

Zhang Shan scanned the area and pulled some memories together. “Let me be clear: once you become my soldiers, you don’t follow Gosa’s methods. Anyone caught burning, looting, or killing will be executed by the military police. As for treatment, for now, you’ll be treated as militia.”

“Hoorah!” Bagen and the herders cheered.

The damned devils burned their home Lanwude to the ground. Forget about military pay—they’d gladly fight if just handed a rifle and allowed to bring their own rations.

“One rifle and twenty rounds of ammunition each. For your group, I’m also giving you three ‘Type 11 Heavy Machine Guns.’”

Zhang Shan beckoned, and the herders rushed forward to pick out their weapons.

No matter how cumbersome, a proper rifle was a hundred times better than a saber.

As for the Type 11, it was a classic piece of junk light machine gun. It didn’t use belts or magazines but instead loaded from a pan magazine on the left side. You could insert five-round clips into the pan, which held six clips total—thirty rounds altogether.

Beneath the pan was a small lever; a slight movement pushed a bullet into the chamber, followed by a bang. The spent casing would eject from the right, and the used clip would drop from the bottom of the pan.

This loading method was indeed unusual, but it had many problems—frequent malfunctions made it unreliable in combat. Even a bit of mud in the pan could jam it instantly.

Still, it was better than manually operating the bolt after every shot... right?

Zhang Shan and a beaming, fidgety Bagen approached the temporary command center at the station, standing before the map.

“Do you see this railway?”

“Yes, the Beria Grand Railway.”

The Beria Grand Railway stretched west from the Rasia imperial capital to the western coast of the Pasfi Ocean, crossing eight time zones and sixteen major rivers, with over a thousand stations along its more than 9,200-kilometer length.

It ran close to the southern border and was the absolute lifeline running east to west across the Rasia Empire’s territory.

With it, the empire could flexibly mobilize troops to respond to external invasions.

Zhang Shan pointed at the map. “The enemy has invaded multiple border provinces. I’m ordering the people of Lanwude to withdraw. But a simple retreat will likely expose our allies’ flanks and risk their encirclement and destruction. What I need from you is to immediately support the eastern Red Tower Province. If you encounter the enemy’s main force, do not engage—avoid them entirely. Your task is to attack only the enemy’s transport convoys.”

“Ah? Just that?” Bagen was clearly expecting a desperate battle, not this.

Zhang Shan’s gaze sharpened, and Bagen immediately shrank back.

“The enemy’s logistics are terrible. On this vast grassland, the Yamato must transport fuel over 300 miles unless they capture our core cities where oil reserves are stored. You don’t even need to succeed in attacks—as long as you can harass and slow down their truck convoys, you will have accomplished a great deed.” Zhang Shan turned to Sergei. “Give them a portable radio and a communications soldier.”

“Yes!”

“Also, send three horsemen to inform Red Tower Province of our withdrawal.”

“Yes!”

After dismissing Bagen, Zhang Shan rested his chin on his hand, staring at a critical node on the map and muttering, “If this transportation hub falls, it will be a real disaster.”

“Your Highness need not worry. The ‘Titan Train Knights’ have always guarded this place. Those damned Yamato cannot capture it without committing several divisions.”

Wait—what the hell are these ‘Titan Train Knights’?