Chapter 118: The Prisoners' Self‑Rescue

Mijie River.

The pilot was extremely daring; this time the landing site was extremely close to Xibu.

If the Japanese Army's mortars fire over, that would be unlucky.

"You skinny calf! Finally we've landed, you really scared me." Mi Long, the big Northeastern man, had never flown before; the plane's turbulence and the water landing made his legs still tremble.

"Everyone, hurry, move fast, get off the plane." Chang Shan was already shouting loudly from a distance.

As Chang Shan shouted, officers of all ranks had already organized their units.

Sixth Company Commander Chang Shan, specialty: defense.

Soon, the Sixth Company soldiers were already lined up neatly, ready to move out.

Because the transport could carry limited troops, Chang Shan could only bring a one‑and‑half platoon of men, plus a machine‑gun squad and a mortar squad, to ensure sufficient firepower.

After they reached the destination, they immediately went to rendezvous with Quan Zong's Eighth Company.

When Chang Shan arrived at Xibu, smoke already filled the air.

Seeing Quan Zong of the Eighth Company, he almost didn't recognize him—was this still the Quan Zong he knew before?

Both were Jiang Anguo's first batch of exchanged company‑level commanders; many days of fighting made Quan Zong look even more weathered compared to when he left Lashu, and added a few more murderous auras.

"Whole Company Commander, is the Eighth Company all right?" Chang Shan offered Quan Zong a cigarette and asked.

In fact, Chang Shan had rushed up from behind and saw many wounded on the outer positions of Xibu.

Quan Zong took the cigarette, took a hard drag, shook his head, "Whole Company has 160 men; after fighting all the way, by the battle at Xibu we may have less than half left."

"Brother, leave the rest to me; have the Eighth Company soldiers fall back and recuperate," Chang Shan said.

"No, let's speed up together. The air squad just sent word that there's a camp in the southeast corner that may be holding our prisoners. We should go there first, lest the Little Devils panic and attack the captives," Quan Zong said.

Chang Shan was also blunt; having just arrived, he didn't fully understand the battle situation.

The Eighth Company's soldiers are now fighting the Japanese Army; retreating now would clearly be difficult and would leave some inner‑city positions vacant, while the Little Devils inside the city are making a final resistance.

Therefore, mutual cooperation between the Eighth and Sixth Companies is best. With the Sixth Company's troops joining, Quan Zong's advance became smoother.

Their coordination grew more tacit, and moreover, Chang Shan brought weapon supplies and fire‑suppression.

Mi Long's MG42 opened fire, rat‑tat‑tat, bullets shooting at a head that peeked out onto the opposite street.

Shell casings fell to the ground.

"Skinny calf, which number is this?" Mi Long could no longer count; he only knew he had killed many Little Devils.

Turns out killing the devils is that simple, even easier than slaughtering pigs,

"Platoon Leader, this is the third devil you've killed."

"Not enough, not enough, I want to kill thirty, three hundred." Mi Long was thrilled with the killing, but he didn't consider what gun he was using or how many bullets it took.

Fortunately, Mi Long's recent training taught him how to shoot properly, not just pulling the trigger blindly; otherwise, no amount of bullets would have sufficed.

The crucial point is that the continuously firing MG42 needs a barrel change; though convenient, few wield an MG42 by hand like Mi Long.

Inside the Xibu POW camp.

Long Wen Zhang knew they couldn't wait; he had already contacted a few brothers he'd spoken with, and those brothers still had some strength. Considering the devils abused prisoners, giving no food or water, anyone still able to move was already fortunate.

They had agreed that once Long Wen Zhang succeeded, they would strike the Little Devils guarding the prisoners.

Because gunfire and artillery grew nearer, the sounds were from their own side; it seemed the Expeditionary Force was attacking this place. They still didn't know their exact position, having followed the Japanese Army all the way here.

Mi Long felt the chance arriving, ready to act, but before Long Wen Zhang could move, a Little Devil messenger ran from afar, shouting something into the ear of the guard's squad leader, whose face changed dramatically.

He suddenly looked toward the camp's interior, then quickly scanned the ragged, emaciated prisoners, a flash of malice in his eyes.

"Bastard, baka." the Japanese Army squad leader shouted angrily.

The squad leader immediately summoned a few platoon leaders and sergeants, forming a circle, pointing at the Expeditionary Force prisoners.

Long Wen Zhang's heart tightened: they were about to act!

"Brothers!" he leapt up, his voice booming like thunder, drowning out the distant artillery, "The Little Devils are about to massacre the camp! Outside are our brothers, reinforcements are outside! These few dozen devils are men's men, follow me, wipe them all out!"

Before the words finished, he grabbed the half‑piece of blue stone he'd hidden under the broken straw mat and, with all his strength, smashed it at the Japanese sentry standing with his back to him.

"Bang!"

A muffled thud!

The stone struck the back of the head hard, blood spurted. The devil didn't even manage a hum, falling limp.

Long Wen Zhang hesitated not a moment, snatched the Type 38 rifle from the opponent's shoulder, pulled the bolt, raised the gun and fired, aiming at the squad leader whose face was ashen.

"Bang!"

The bullet whistled out, perhaps favored by heaven. Though it didn't kill the squad leader, it hit his thigh precisely.

The squad leader let out a horrible scream, fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding wound, wailing.

"Brothers, charge!"

"Grab anything! Sticks, stones, anything that can kill the devils, all will do."

In an instant, over two thousand prisoners erupted like a volcano. Their long‑standing hatred of the Little Devils boiled over; after entering Myanmar they felt helpless—not because they weren't soldiers, but because the officers leading them never saw the devils and fled themselves.

They had become prisoners.

Some swung wooden bowls used for meals at the devils' heads, some cut the ropes with iron pieces hidden for days, and many more rushed in bare‑handed, biting, kicking, and tearing at the Little Devils with pure hatred.

"Ah! Baka, my ear."

One should know that guarding these over two thousand Expeditionary Force prisoners was only a single Japanese Army squad of forty‑to‑fifty men.

Normally, with bayonets, whips and the "kill one to warn a hundred" intimidation, they kept the soldiers so suppressed they dared not cough loudly.

But at this moment, when Long Wen Zhang stepped forward, his roar ignited the long‑suppressed fury in the prisoners, turning them instantly back into warriors.

The Type 38 rifle's magazine holds only five rounds; a full squad could fire at most two‑to‑three thousand rounds. Even if each bullet took a life, they could theoretically wipe them out, but these were all warriors before; two thousand pigs wouldn't stand stupidly and be slaughtered.

The messenger who had come to deliver the report saw the situation spiraling out of control, his face turning ashen.

He had originally delivered the battalion commander's final order: annihilate these prisoners, but now the prisoners seemed to be rebelling.

Seeing the burning anger in their eyes, willing to bite a piece of flesh even unto death, his legs went weak, he turned and fled, rolling and crawling out of the camp gate without daring to look back.

The captives quickly seized all the Little Devil weapons; the gear that had just threatened their lives was now their loot, and they also opened fire on the remaining Little Devils.

The melee lasted less than ten minutes.

When the last Devil was pinned to a camp‑building wooden pillar by several Bayonets, only heavy breathing and suppressed sobbing remained in the camp.

Long Wen Zhang stood at the Center of the corpse‑strewn field, clutching the blood‑stained Type‑38 rifle aloft, and shouted hoarsely, "Brothers… we succeeded!"

But his voice quickly fell low.

Looking around, more than twenty Expeditionary Force soldiers' bodies lay on the ground; they could have survived—just one step away, that final step, and they could have gone home, just one step!

The gunfire grew nearer, and the reinforcements' footsteps were about to arrive.

And they, at last, were no longer captives.