Chapter 423: Scout Field (3)

The ten sets of Zhajia Armor Armor armor used as targets were once again brought back before the Ming men.

Mei Fuxi, who had already stepped forward, wore a deeply solemn expression. He reached out and snatched a set of armor, examining it closely.

The armor itself had not changed, of course — it was still top-grade Zhajia Armor Armor crafted from fine iron and cowhide, with the Left Guard's insignia still engraved on the inner lining. But now, the armor's surface bore several holes and traces of shattered, cracked plates.

Mei Fuxi slowly extended a finger and pressed it gently against a bullet hole, feeling the burred, jagged edge.

Next, he stood the armor upright. As expected, peering through the hole, there was a matching hole on the back — the high-quality Zhajia Armor Armor had been pierced clean through.

He counted carefully.

On the front, there were four bullet holes and one shattered armor plate. These five wounds had produced three exit holes on the back of the breastplate. In other words, that rapid burst of gunfire just now had landed five hits and punched through three times.

Closing his eyes, Mei Fuxi slowly raised his head and let out a long breath — in that moment, certain deeply held convictions from years past crumbled.

Ever since the Menggu year of invasion into the Central Plains, cavalry against infantry had followed a fixed pattern: harass the perimeter, probe with charges, shoot arrows, continue harassing...

This cyclical pattern left infantry drawn up in formation utterly helpless.

Never mind those Mongols circling at fifty meters, shouting back and forth on their short horses. At such moments, the army formation could neither scatter to charge, nor was volleying arrows into the air any use — because by the time the arrow formation was organized and loosed skyward, the enemy cavalry had already ridden off.

In this situation, the infantry was like a bull surrounded and savaged by jackals — collapse was only a matter of time.

It was by this very light-cavalry pattern that the Mongols had swept south to defeat the formation-fighting Song Empire, and swept north to defeat the slow European cavalry, forging an empire of boundless territory.

And now, several centuries later in the Late Ming, the situation had still not fundamentally changed.

The Later Qing's elite Eight Banner troops had not only inherited the Mongol circling-cavalry pattern, but had also refined it — the Bayara White Armor Soldiers, clad in two or even three layers of heavy armor, could at the critical moment charge straight into the Ming Army's ranks, hacking and slaughtering, swiftly shattering the enemy's formation.

And the Ming Army, just like their Song predecessors, still had no good answer: at fifty meters, the Three-Eye Blunderbuss and Bird Blunderbuss posed no threat whatsoever to an armored foe, far less practical than the enemy's heavy arrows.

Under these conditions, only a Western cannon weighing several thousand jin within the formation could strike the enemy... This was the fundamental reason the Ming Army had so rapidly degenerated into a purely city-defense force: in field battles, the Ming Army had neither mobility, nor any effective means of killing enemy cavalry en masse beyond fifty meters.

For someone like Mei Fuxi — a military descendant who had read the military classics, received instruction from battle-hardened veterans, and understood the true nature of war — the Ming Army's tactical inability to resist the Tartar Soldiers had long since become fixed dogma.

This was bitter knowledge, bought over more than ten years at the cost of several hundred thousand elite frontier troops annihilated.

And that knowledge, today, had been shattered by the iron armor before his eyes.

When that squad of Green-Jacket Soldiers had fired their firearms just now, they had been standing a full three hundred paces away. And the bullet holes Mei Fuxi now saw had undeniably punched through excellent Zhajia Armor Armor armor.

Which meant: if the Tartar Soldiers surrounded this group of Green-Jacket Soldiers, then at three hundred paces, armored men would be shot dead in the saddle — numbers would not help; those Green-Jacket Soldiers had just fired five rapid volleys and still looked to have strength to spare.

"With such a fearsome weapon under heaven, who could stand against it? No wonder this paltry force dares march north for the King's Rescue!"

As the breastplate was passed around the crowd for inspection, such words kept spilling from people's lips. The previously bustling Scout Field now gradually sank into silence: the Ming men could not help but begin whispering to one another, and a hum of murmuring arose across the viewing platform.

Some old guards who regularly traveled Kouwai, their sense of danger keen, now found themselves glancing around involuntarily at those Green-Jacket Soldiers encircling the field. These Ming men, who had paid them no mind before, now that they understood the fire lances' power, had realized: this ring of seemingly sparse and utterly feeble Southern Soldiers could, in the space of a few breaths, slaughter every last one of these thousand-odd stout fellows on the spot!

Many a man felt a sudden chill at the back of his neck.

Seeing that the atmosphere had been sufficiently primed, the host on the command platform, Wu Xiao, once again raised his voice and cheerfully announced the next event: individual target shooting.

This time, no one fell for it. The Ming men now understood that this man, whose great voice came from some clever mechanical device, spoke with seeming courtesy but was in truth mocking them, the natives.

Yet this so-called "event" still had to be watched, however keenly they felt the sting of being scorned. By now, every Ming man had risen to his feet, craning his neck, staring as another ten sets of brand-new Zhajia Armor Armor armor were stood upright on the tables before them.

Next, a man wearing a gaudy, colorful beggar's outfit — the "Flower-Clothes Barbarian" everyone had ridiculed ever since the landing at Tianjin — stepped up to the firing position used earlier.

By this point, no fool dared laugh at that flower-patterned clothing. Every Ming man on the field was holding his breath, awaiting the event about to unfold.

Same distance, same position — the special operations team member over three hundred meters away was now just a speck in the Ming men's eyes.

The next moment, a whip of fire lashed out from the strange arquebus in the flower-clothed man's hands.

The 7.62mm standard jacketed rounds fired from the MK17 assault rifle were simply beyond anything the lead-ball-shooting Type 38 rifle could match.

The very first magazine of thirty rounds tore the helmets and armor on the table completely apart — fine-iron woven plates and cowhide were sent flying through the air in shreds.

After a lightning-fast magazine change, the special operations team member aimed through his scope at the armor once more and unleashed a second volley of rounds.

Fiery red tracers streaked continuously before the Ming men's eyes — the visual impact, like watching a grand spectacle, left everyone dumbstruck.

The firing time was again very short, again under half a minute.

When the resounding gunfire ceased, the "remains" of the Zhajia Armor Armor armor, ravaged by two volleys of NATO rounds, were once again brought before the Ming men.

Ten sets of tattered, broken armor once more reshaped the stout fellows' understanding. Now, when they looked at those flower-clothed soldiers standing around the command platform, there was even a trace of fear in their eyes.

After this target-shooting-cum-face-slapping segment — nominally "entertainment," in reality a show of strength — the atmosphere on the Scout Field grew exceedingly strange for the remainder of the lunch hour.

The Ming men were no fools; they quickly grasped the "meaning behind the gunfire": the Southern General truly had no need of them as cannon fodder — this was purely a recruitment of auxiliary soldiers.

With that realization, certain men who had originally had no intention of going to their deaths found their minds beginning to stir — especially the merchant caravan guards.

These old hands of the trade routes had been unwilling to enlist before because the cost-benefit of this damned auxiliary soldier business was far too low: no matter how much silver you could earn, you had to be alive to spend it, right?

But after this midday demonstration, the cost-benefit now looked very high indeed — not only could you earn a great deal of silver, the danger was also minimal. Unless you ran into the Tartars' main force, those flower-clothed soldiers could probably slaughter any Tartar cavalry force under a thousand men with ease.

Besides, this Cao fellow's staggering wealth was now confirmed fact — so the one-man-two-horses deal he'd promised everyone would surely materialize... And if they really did encounter a large Tartar force, well, the brothers could always turn tail and run, couldn't they?

And so, after a round of whispered discussion and weighing of pros and cons, in the brief span of a single lunch, the situation reversed itself. Many guards changed their minds: if they didn't have to charge into battle and die, and there was big silver to be made, why not take a jaunt up north?

One must understand, these men usually risked their lives for merchant masters — a single trip into the bandit-ridden wilds of Kouwai might net them only a few dozen taels of silver.

That very afternoon, the number of people going to the "chairman's" platform for secondary registration saw a gratifying increase. By suppertime, Cao Zong had recruited a total of 320 cavalrymen who met the requirements.

This number was already very close to the target. Just a little more recruiting tomorrow, and the task would be successfully accomplished.

That evening, Mei Fuxi, his mind heavy with preoccupation, went to his elderly father's study and described everything he had seen and heard that day.

In truth, the instant he had seen that shattered armor, Mei Fuxi's blood had run hot. His previous precocious reserve had been because he saw no hope... But if hope was in sight, what Ming man wouldn't want to kill Tartars?

In the end, Mei Fuxi still did not go to sign up. He was not like those guards who could leave at a moment's notice — he was the only son of the family; on a matter this grave, he had to return and discuss it with his old father.

After questioning him in detail, Mei's father ultimately did not agree: on the battlefield, blades and arrows have no eyes — even if the Southerners' weapons were formidable, what if some mishap occurred? The Mei family had no need of that bit of silver.

Having failed to persuade his father, Mei Fuxi went back to the Scout Field the next day to watch the excitement, his heart still heavy.

The crowd at the field was much thinner today. The passes of those who hadn't qualified the day before had all been confiscated, so aside from a portion of newcomers, most of those present today were, like Mei Fuxi, men who met the requirements but had not signed up.

Realizing that there were still quite a number of elite, hesitant types like Mei Fuxi, the Transmigrators — who harbored certain unspoken, long-range plans for this recruitment drive — finally had no choice but to bring out their ultimate weapon: the Whole-Ox Feast.

In the muddy ground directly outside the side gate of the Scout Field, over a dozen purchased Menggu oxen were tethered far off, a full two li away.

Then, several special operations team members, simulating a skirmish encounter, rode up to the side gate on horseback. The team members immediately halted, dismounted, and unloaded the great killer from their horses' backs: the M2 heavy machine gun.

... The outcome need hardly be described.

In short, when the Ming People saw this lightweight "great cannon" that could accompany cavalry on the march dismember an entire herd of cattle from two li away, they all erupted into a clamor. That afternoon, the progress of recruitment soared, and the total number quickly reached as many as five hundred men.

Mei Fuxi was the very last person recruited, during the great pot of beef feast that evening.

The recruitment process was very simple. When Cao Zong, the Regional Commander, dressed in a bright red Official Robe, came over with a wine bowl to toast his new subordinates, his exchange with Mei Fuxi went like this: "A capable fellow like you, why are you unwilling to follow your general to kill Tartars?"

"My lord, Fuzhou Governor does not lack silver."

"Oh, but what if your general leads you to kill Tartars with your own hands, and afterward reports your merits, so that in the future you might earn titles for your wife and a Viscountcy for your son?"

"Would Fuzhou Governor dare not obey?"