Chapter 626: Quelling the Rebellion (VI)

As the saying goes, coolness never lasts more than three seconds.

The Northern Vietnamese, who had captured the enemy's core bastion by dusk that day, saw their elation evaporate in less than three hours.

The reason was simple: at nightfall, the Southern Vietnamese launched a massive counterattack.

A bastion complex is not a field army. A human army formation, once pierced and split, will likely see its soldiers rout and flee; the victor need only follow behind the routed troops and reap them like wheat.

But with a bastion complex, as long as the defenders' will is tenacious, the attacker must gnaw through it bit by bit — there are no shortcuts.

In World War II, the Soviet Union's national defense fortifications were mostly divided and occupied by the German army, yet even a month later, the sound of machine-gun resistance still came from many subsidiary bastions and tunnels — the most famous being the Brest Fortress.

That was World War II, and this siege battle unfolding in the seventeenth century was no different. What's more, the Northern Vietnamese were still far from occupying the majority of the enemy's works.

At nightfall that very day, the Southern Vietnamese launched a large-scale counterattack targeting the A7 Bastion.

With this counterattack, the Northerners' disadvantages became apparent.

First, since the A7 Bastion was entirely surrounded by enemy positions, reinforcements could only advance along the straight corridor opened that morning, which limited the Northerners' numerical advantage.

For the same reason, the Southern Vietnamese could attack from all directions in the dark. The locals knew every passage and trap, their troop-gathering speed was fast, and they could launch surprise attacks at any moment.

There was also one key factor.

For the Southern Vietnamese regime, with its weak national power, this bastion complex defense line north of Shunhua was truly their lifeline. The moment this line collapsed, the Southern Vietnamese separatist regime would be finished in minutes.

Therefore, guided by this principle, when the Southern Vietnamese originally built the bastions, they adopted a defensive approach of infinitely reinforcing the front while leaving the rear undefended: every single resource had to be used on the side facing north.

They did not need bastions with 360-degree defense. The Vietnamese, with their narrow territory, would never even consider the scenario of the enemy bypassing the line — if it truly came to that, Shunhua would already have fallen, and the bastion line would have lost its meaning anyway.

Thus, many factors compounded. The bastion the Northern Vietnamese had just seized, still warm after less than three hours, was snatched back before midnight amid torchlight and battle cries by the Southern Vietnamese cold-weapon Imperial Guard elites.

Then, the next morning, a certain Military Aid Delegation Leader, wearing a faint Zhuge Liang-style smile on his face, gracefully agreed to the request delivered by the frantic Northern Vietnamese envoy: continue the bombardment.

At this point, the great campaign to quell the rebellion entered its second phase — the brutal, grinding war of attrition officially began.

The Southern Vietnamese quickly figured out the temperament of the great cannon across from them.

Yes, the mortar's firepower was ferocious, but this cannon moved slowly, had a low rate of fire, and required obvious preparations before firing. Once accustomed to it, the Southern Vietnamese took precautions: on the bastions facing the mortar, they began evacuating resources in advance, assigned a small number of troops to stand guard, and massed firepower on the outer perimeter, specializing in defense and counterattack.

Whenever the Northern Vietnamese army attacked, the Southern Vietnamese would rely on the terrain to rapidly organize their forces for defense, minimizing damage from the cannon fire to the greatest extent.

As a result, the fighting became a stalemate.

With the mortar's help, the Northern Vietnamese could capture the opposing bastion every day, but as soon as night fell, the Northerners, lacking a firm foothold, would be driven back out by the Southerners.

By the next day, the Northerners would face the same sturdy bastion again: the Southern Vietnamese would rush to repair the fortifications during the night.

There was no helping it — the mortar, after all, fired iron balls and could not, like the Führer's aerial bombs, completely blast an opponent's national defense works into rubble.

This kind of seesaw battle was extremely disadvantageous for the attacker. The Northern Vietnamese army, with its back to the Zheng River, not only had a long supply line, but also lost far more soldiers in each day's assault than the number of defenders killed in the south.

Yet now that things had come to this pass, they had to grit their teeth and fight on no matter what. After all, the great mortar had already brought a glimmer of dawn; before this, the Northerners had been utterly helpless against this Dongfang Maqinuo.

The entire Northern court and populace thus united in resolve, throwing their full weight behind the assault on the Southern rebel defense line.

Over the next ten-plus days, Northern Vietnam truly gave it their all, emptying their family fortune as an army of over a hundred thousand stormed the line in waves, heedless of casualties. At the same time, the army adopted an "occupy and fill as you go" siege method to adapt to the war of attrition.

Finally, after paying an enormous price, the Northern Vietnamese leveled three bastion zones at the center of the defense line on April 5th, linking them into one contiguous area, establishing a temporary strongpoint, and stockpiling weapons and supplies.

That night, after prolonged slaughter, the Northerners historically held the forward strongpoint, driving a firm wedge into the enemy line.

At dawn the next day, as the morning sun rose, soldiers dispatched from the Jiangnan Camp swiftly crossed the death zone in the middle of the battlefield and flooded into the temporary strongpoint.

By this point, it was only a matter of time before the Southerners' defense line was breached. The Northerners, with their numerical advantage, could use the moats to infiltrate and spread toward both flanks; now that the terrain advantage was evenly shared, the Southerners' previous defensive model no longer worked.

However — and yet — when the Northern Vietnamese general in charge of frontline command arrived at the shattered top of the A7 Bastion and gazed southward, the wrinkles on his face seemed to deepen even further.

At this moment, what presented itself before the general, besides the stone walls and bastions extending left and right beneath his feet, was another bastion line, flying the Ruan Clan royal banner of Southern Vietnam, standing starkly just three hundred paces to the south.

At the same time, using an imported telescope, the general also observed a third defense line further south, and beyond that, civilian laborers busily working under the walls of Shunhua — those ant-like figures were certainly not rushing to build a Disneyland.

Since this was the nation's sole permanent national defense fortification, the Southern Vietnamese had never agreed to build just one line. Over the years, the Southern Vietnamese had been busy with this one task, so naturally they would see it done to perfection.

"Quickly, request His Highness to come and observe."

After a long while, the general ordered, his face dark.

"I fear that would be improper. This place is vulnerable to cannon fire, and His Highness's person is worth a thousand in gold..."

"Bullshit!"

The general flew into a rage and lashed his attendant fiercely with his whip: "We're about to be driven back to Shenglong Prefecture by the Southern rebels, and you still speak of a person worth a thousand in gold!"

Not long after, Prince Zheng Zhuang, having received the news, hurriedly ascended the A7 Bastion with a large retinue of military officers.

After personally observing the second bastion line before him — and more importantly, personally observing the resolve of the Southern Vietnamese people to defend their homeland and resist to the end — Prince Zheng fell silent.

That afternoon, at the Military Aid Delegation encampment.

On a patch of wild grass enclosed by standard-issue green military canvas tents, green ants brewed new wine over a small red clay stove. Zheng Zhuang, the Qingdu King of Northern Vietnam, dressed in a plain silk robe, was stealing a moment of leisure with Sheng Nan, Commander Sheng, sampling charcoal-roasted coffee from a large green military mug.

Holding the large mug that emitted a strange odor, the already white-haired Prince Zheng gulped down a huge mouthful of the sugarless, milkless Taiwanese coffee as if savoring sweet dew.

"Not bad. Though this tea is bitter, it has a distinct flavor all its own."

Sheng Nan smiled and took a sip as well: "The main thing about this coffee is that it keeps you alert. Your Highness has drunk so much — you likely won't need your afternoon nap today."

Upon hearing this, Prince Zheng's face took on a troubled, sorrowful look: "Ah, now the great army is bogged down here, unable to advance or retreat. I don't fear the General's ridicule — lately I truly cannot sleep at night, let alone take an afternoon nap!"

The Prince had come all this way just to drink this shabby enamel-mug coffee; he was surely at his wit's end and had come seeking aid, so the topic was bound to turn to the current war situation.

Sheng Nan was well aware of this. Hearing the Prince's somewhat clumsy transition, he was not the least bit surprised: "Oh, so Your Highness is in poor spirits. Yet from what I can see, progress so far has been fairly smooth. If the army pushes a bit harder and topples the next defense line, the job can be considered done!"

"You jest. A man of the General's caliber, versed in both civil and military affairs — I refuse to believe the General cannot see the peril before us."

Zheng Zhuang smiled bitterly and shook his head: "The weather has already turned sweltering of late, and disease is steadily spreading through the ranks. We are natives here and know full well that on these banks of the Zheng River, rain is likely to fall within five days. When that happens, all our previous efforts will be wasted, and the hundred-thousand-strong army will have to flee back in disgrace. Ah, I fear this old brother of yours does not have long to live."

The panic-stricken Prince Zheng, having said this, stole a glance at the expressionless Sheng Nan, and finally, helpless, cupped his hands and bowed his head: "This time, this old brother has brought a hundred thousand taels of gold, pearls, and precious goods — they are just outside the camp gate now. I beseech the General to rescue my army from fire and water!"

Poor Sheng Nan, in all his life, had never been bribed before — and with a colossal sum at that, Division-level standard no less — which made this old loser feel as refreshed as drinking iced cola in the dog days of summer, and he instantly broke character: "Hahaha, Your Highness flatters me!"

Wiping his face, the great Commander Sheng straightened his expression, and his tone immediately became much more cordial: "Very well, I understand the situation is critical. I will send an urgent dispatch at once, requesting my Grand Commandant's House Guardian Treasure to lend Your Highness a helping hand."

The Prince immediately perked up: "Oh? What is this House Guardian Treasure?"

"This item is called the Plasma General — a high-technology cannon. Against the mere fortresses of those Southern rebels, one shot will reduce them all to ashes!"

"Such a wondrous thing truly exists under heaven?"

Seeing the prince hardly believed him, Commander Sheng put on a disdainful look and immediately stretched out both arms, pantomiming a circle as big as a cartwheel: "The muzzle alone is this thick and stout — truly my Grand Commandant's House Guardian Treasure! Prince, one shot from this will churn miles of land into pulp. I speak no empty words!"

Prince Zheng's eyes blazed with sharp light. He grabbed the Delegation Leader's hand and shook it wildly up and down: "Worthy brother, quickly send that divine artifact to save your old brother's life!"

Sheng Nan of course couldn't say right now that the divine artifact was already waiting on standby in a ship's cabin out on the open sea: "Mm, well, old brother, you know how it is — a House Guardian Treasure is precious and delicate. Inviting it to move even once is, I'm afraid, no simple matter, wouldn't you say?"

Zheng Zhuang dismissed this with utter contempt.

The thing was, in this campaign to suppress the rebellion, the Northern Vietnam regime had truly emptied its family fortune and staked everything. Under these circumstances, no matter what conditions Sheng Nan proposed, to Zheng Zhuang they all fell under Doesn't Matter — on one premise: as long as the southern rebels could be swept flat.

Zheng Zhuang at this moment was like a red-eyed gambler who had already wagered all his property and was now scraping together his very last chip. Having come this far, he didn't care in the slightest how high the lender might raise the interest.

Isn't it just a routine loan? This prince accepts. Out with it — want my nude photos too?

"Little brother, you might as well say it plainly: how can I borrow that divine artifact from your Grand Commandant?"

Facing the prince's burn-the-boats posture, Sheng Nan did not ask for money. Instead, following the original plan, he pulled over the map and drew a circle on it with his finger: "If, after the prince has pacified the realm, he can lend troops for a trip to Ayutthaya, then my Grand Commandant will surely nod and grant this matter."