Chapter 23: Counterattack Against the Japanese Army!

The regimental commander was still waving his saber, issuing orders, completely unaware that danger was already upon him.

Bang!

At the very instant the shot rang out, the wind stilled, the clouds paused, and the gunpowder smoke froze in midair.

A bullet from the Zhongzheng rifle sped forth with astonishing velocity, crossing four hundred meters in a flash, and bored straight into Setsuzo Yazaki’s skull.

Yazaki, in the midst of commanding his soldiers to advance, had not even the briefest moment to react—his entire head was blown clean off.

His skull, like a watermelon, exploded into a spray of red and white, falling beside several nearby Japanese officers.

One shot, one kill. Upon checking his points, Chen Qingzhi found a full ten thousand added to his tally, and his mood soared. He paid no further mind to the matter of the Japanese officers, simply continuing to fire, as if the man he'd just slain was not a Japanese colonel but an ordinary, insignificant soldier.

Not far off, the officers surrounding Yazaki froze for several seconds after his assassination, only then coming to their senses.

Their regimental commander had been sniped right before their eyes.

They stared dumbly at Yazaki’s ruined skull, red and white fluids splattered everywhere, and panic broke out among the Japanese.

“The reg... the regimental commander... has been sniped?”

A major, his face deathly pale, seemed unable to believe what he was witnessing, and stammered in a daze.

The other officers said nothing, but the terror in their eyes betrayed the storm raging in their hearts.

“It’s over! We’re finished! The 115th Regiment is finished!”

Only now did one officer seem to grasp what had happened. At the sight of Yazaki’s death, his face changed, and he let out a wretched wail.

Under Japanese military law, if the commanding officer fell in battle, his subordinates would face severe punishment—perhaps even a military tribunal.

And Yazaki had been killed right in front of them; regardless of whether they were responsible, they would have to pay for his death.

What’s more, with Yazaki dead, the 115th Regiment would be thrown into utter chaos.

At such a critical moment, if the regiment’s morale collapsed, their annihilation would not be far behind.

“The commander is dead! Damn it! The commander is dead!”

Just then, a Japanese soldier caught sight of Yazaki’s corpse—his skull blown away—and first gasped, then shouted in alarm.

Upon hearing this, all the Japanese soldiers were seized by panic; the will to fight collapsed, and one after another, their faces ashen, they yearned to retreat.

After wave upon wave of setbacks, the vaunted Bushido spirit of these Japanese had long since been worn away. Now, hearing suddenly of their commander’s death, their terror overcame them, and they began to withdraw, no longer daring to press the attack.

“Damn it! Hold the line! Hold the line! Wipe out those Chinese!”

Seeing the soldiers trying to retreat, several Japanese officers roared in fury, trying to stem the rout. But under the threat of death, the soldiers paid them no heed, only fleeing all the faster.

Witnessing this, Chen Qingzhi knew this was a golden opportunity. He shouted, “Brothers, the Japanese are afraid! Don’t hold back—hit them with everything you’ve got!”

“Kill them! Kill the bastards!”

“Kill them! Avenge our brothers!”

At the command, all the soldiers roared in unison, and every machine gun opened fire, unleashing a savage barrage upon the Japanese—an overwhelming, torrential storm like a monsoon.

Under such firepower, even the 115th Regiment at full strength would not dare to face the onslaught head-on, let alone now, when they were already in full retreat.

The Japanese dared not even think of counterattacking; they only wanted to escape as quickly as possible.

But to expose one’s back to the enemy on the battlefield was a sure path to death.

Bullets whistled through the air, striking countless Japanese in their backs, sending them convulsing and collapsing to the ground.

Some were struck by the sheer force of the bullets, pitching forward before crumpling lifelessly to the earth—beyond any hope of getting up again.

Clearly, they were dead beyond all doubt.

“Run! The Chinese army is too formidable!”

Panic was etched on the faces of many Japanese; seeing their comrades gunned down while fleeing, their souls fled their bodies, and they ran all the harder for their lives.

But this was precisely the moment to strike at a drowning foe. How could Chen Qingzhi let such an opportunity slip by?

“Eighty-millimeter mortars, get ready! Target the Japanese retreat route—three rapid rounds!” Chen Qingzhi commanded, his expression taut.

A few soldiers had already brought the mortars into position, awaiting his order. At his words, they loaded the shells.

Thump—thump—

Two eighty-millimeter mortars let out muffled roars, and two shells, trailing long tongues of flame, landed precisely along the Japanese retreat.

Boom—boom!

The shells exploded, shrapnel slicing through the air, instantly killing a dozen or so Japanese; countless others were wounded, falling with wails and screams that echoed without end.

And it was not yet over.

Eighty-millimeter mortars fired in rapid salvos of three; this was only the first barrage.

The mortars spoke again, one shell after another crashing down, throwing the Japanese into utter chaos.

Many abandoned any thought of escape, diving for cover in the hope of avoiding the deadly blasts.

“How can the Chinese army have artillery?!”

A surviving Japanese battalion commander, staring at the craters left by the shells, was incredulous, bellowing in rage.

In their experience fighting the Nationalist forces, mortars of this caliber were the province of a divisional unit at least.

Yet here they faced only a battalion!

How could a mere battalion possess not one but two eighty-millimeter mortars?

The Japanese commander was reeling with disbelief, but he had yet to see the worst.

After firing, the mortars’ recoil had shifted their aim, requiring a moment to recalibrate, but at that very instant, Chen Qingzhi issued another cold order: “Sixty-two-millimeter mortars, prepare to fire!”

Thump—thump—thump—thump—

Four sixty-two-millimeter mortars roared together; four shells rose into the sky, arcing toward the Japanese.

“Damn it! There’s more!”

Some Japanese, hearing the whistling shells, instinctively looked up only to see four fiery projectiles streaking down—like meteors in the night.

Under their terrified gaze, the shells exploded in succession.