Chapter 207: Hope in the Jungle

The rain on Wild Man Mountain fell day and night without cease.

The mud didn't rise above the ankles, and beneath the decaying leaves hid poisonous snakes and swamps.

The troops of the Newly Formed 38th Division and the Newly Formed 22nd Division trudged step by step across an unnamed ridge, their ranks thin and scattered, like a fraying hemp rope.

Malaria, cold‑heat disease, dysentery… were deadlier than the Japanese Army's bullets.

Some, feverish and delirious, were carried on sticks by comrades; others had legs swollen like pillars, each step tearing their lips; many more fell silently, without time even for burial, their faces covered with banana leaves as they were swallowed by the terrifying primeval forest.

Morale had already sunk to rock bottom.

"How much longer to India?"

"Don't know… they say there are still thirty mountains ahead."

"I can't go on… you go ahead."

In the whispers, despair spread like miasma.

"Jianchu, what do we do now?" Sun Liren said, his face full of worry.

Liao Yaoxiang adjusted his gold‑rimmed glasses and said, "The soldiers' morale is too low, and food is scarce; there is little supply to be found in the jungle. If this continues, even half of us may never get out. I think we should fight our way back."

The unit no longer had any surplus food; the few rations left were secretly hoarded by the soldiers, and only when they could no longer endure would each person sneak a lick.

To fight back, a detachment of the Little Devil's 18th Division was actually blocked at Yinduo, but the main force moved south to Tonggu; of course, Sun Liren and Liao Yaoxiang were unaware of this.

At present they report the unit's status daily to Chief Du of Bamo.

They march only seven or eight kilometers a day, so it's clear that reaching Yingpar will require at least forty days.

Sun Liren knew that of what Liao Yaoxiang said, a thirty‑percent chance of getting out of this damned jungle would already be good.

Suddenly, Sun Liren snapped his head up and shouted, "Conceal! Enemy aircraft!"

The soldiers reflexively dove into the jungle, slipping into roots and rock crevices, holding even their breath. After five years of resistance, the roar overhead always meant death.

But the black speck grew nearer, its outline sharpening, a buzzing—the sound of an engine roaring.

It wasn't a Zero, nor a 97th attack plane, but a C‑47 transport!

Below the fuselage, the Blue Sky White Sun Emblem shone like a beam through the gloom.

"It's our plane!" someone shouted, voice trembling.

A familiar voice crackled over the radio: Air Force Brigade Commander Song Yunfei, "Target acquired! Coordinates confirmed! Commence air drop!"

The transport skimmed low over the treetops, and the cargo doors opened.

White parachutes drifted down one by one, like sweet rain from the heavens.

Canned food, quinine tablets, compressed biscuits, purified‑water tablets, blankets… even bundles of bandages!

"Supplies! It's a resupply!"

"We weren't abandoned! You remembered us!"

The soldiers surged from their hideouts, kneeling in the mud to catch the falling packages; some clutched cans and wept loudly, others shoved quinine tablets straight into the mouths of unconscious comrades.

Sun Liren stood on higher ground, rain sliding down his resolute cheek, a glint of tears in his eyes.

He whispered to his adjutant, "Tell the brothers… hold on a little longer. We can make it home alive."

Liao Yaoxiang could hardly conceal his excitement; after entering the jungle, everything had changed—so bitter, so hard.

It would have been better to turn around and fight the Little Devil head‑on; many soldiers died in this jungle.

But to maintain marching speed, the two decided that the remaining soldiers should discard their weapons, keeping only ammunition; staying longer in Myanmar's jungle would cost even more lives.

Song Yunfei also pointed the Expeditionary Force on the ground toward the proper direction; after flying west toward Yingpar for a stretch, he turned back, rocking the wings left and right.

Among the dropped supplies were maps the Expeditionary Force needed.

The map was the one Jiang Anguo had captured from the Japanese Army in Myanmar; undeniably, the Japanese maps were far more precise than those of the Expeditionary Force.

With the supplies secured, they confirmed a new direction.

The soldiers of the Newly Formed 22nd Division and the Newly Formed 38th Division finally saw hope—hope of survival—and inevitably quickened their pace a little.

One day and one night.

When Jiang Anguo opened his eyes again, the sky outside the window had shifted from dusk to dawn.

Jiang Anguo rose, looking at the blanket covering him, which Xiao Si had likely draped over him.

Seeing Xiao Si still asleep outside, he placed his own blanket over Xiao Si, gently pushed the door open, and stepped out.

He went to the poolside, turned on the faucet, and with a stream of water cupped in both hands, splashed his face.

He felt a few more moments of clarity.

"Refreshing," Jiang Anguo couldn't help but say.

Looking at the sky, he recalled that he had arrived at Lashu at noon yesterday, chatted with Lin Yi for a while, then returned to his quarters to rest.

He hadn't expected night to fall; he couldn't believe it was still May 19. Indeed, today must already be May 20.

May 20, 6 p. m.

An unusual hunger in his stomach drove him to look for something to eat.

Jiang Anguo ordered a guard to drive to Lashu Airport; its mess hall was the highest‑ranked, and he simply had the chef prepare a bowl of noodles.

The dinner rice was still undercooked; when Jiang Anguo asked, the cooking company had gone to the front lines, so no one could cook—what a mess, She Pigu was left to cook.

The noodles were clean and refreshing.

He took a few bites, set down his chopsticks, and returned smiles to the nods of the surrounding soldiers.

Jiang Anguo closed his eyes, thinking of Jiang Fei, the stern man who was the Guard Company Commander.

He thought of everyone who had fallen in this war; looking at the system's memorial plaques for the deceased soldiers, he wished the system didn't exist, so he wouldn't have to remember their faces.

But the system seemed intent on making him remember forever.

Anything registered in the system—photos, information—remains there, stored permanently.

And the fallen.

He will never be able to return for the rest of his life!

A single tear rolled down Jiang Anguo's eye.

He lowered his head, quickly ate the noodles in his bowl, then walked out of the camp; the surroundings were also filled with Independent Regiment soldiers, and he arrived at the warehouse where the supplies had been stored earlier.

The supplies inside were already scarce.

One should know that the supplies Jiang Anguo left at the time were enough for a large army to use for a month; he only planned a one‑month period, from launching the attack to retreat.

If Jiang Anguo does not return safely, his troops will face collapse.

Lashu's supplies were indeed being used somewhat quickly; the Major reason was during the Air Drop to the th Division, inevitably some supplies fell in places that could not be found.

Especially food: for a ten‑thousand‑person army, the daily food requirement is at least twenty to forty thousand jin, which translates to a minimum standard of 10 tons of supply.

In fact, if we follow domestic troop standards, a daily supply of four tons already sustains normal combat power, let alone the fact that daily supplies are uneven and they still go hungry at night.

For example, back when they were at Chanda, those soulless soldiers only ate every other meal.

After the supplies were replenished, Jiang Anguo felt relieved, and Lin Yi could also be at ease serving as the chief quartermaster.

Yesterday Lin Yi had already mentioned the supply issue, but they were just too exhausted; the moment they landed, Jiang Anguo wanted to rest immediately.