Chapter 221: Air Battle Victory

The Expeditionary Force pilots in the sky were completely bloodshot-eyed.

They no longer fought to escort, but fought for revenge.

"For Charlie! For Jack!" a Pilot roared in bitter fury, piloting a P-40 like a mad tiger, charging at the just‑finished‑slaughtering "Falcon".

The Japanese Pilot clearly hadn't expected such a fierce counterattack; he hurriedly pulled up, trying to climb. But it was already too late. The heavy P-40 fuselage, gathering terrifying kinetic energy in the dive, let the six machine‑gun fire‑tongues instantly devour the Falcon's engine. A massive blaze erupted from the engine, turning the whole aircraft into a flying torch.

But the story did not end.

The Pilot did not return; he steered the burning War Eagle at the most conspicuous Type 97 heavy bomber in the Japanese Army formation, and resolutely rammed it!

Because he had exhausted all his bullets, he still wanted to shoot down more Japanese aircraft, and this was already the third downed; the final one required his last bullet to complete the task.

"No—!"

In the sky, a firework brighter than the sun burst open. The two aircraft merged in midair, turning into countless burning fragments that scattered wildly toward the ground.

All of Chongqing, at that moment, seemed to stand still.

Immediately after, an even more ferocious battle erupted in full.

William led his wolf pack, completely abandoning defense and pushing the attack to the extreme.

They exploited the P-40's rapid dive speed, firing a single burst then pulling away, never engaging the Falcon in prolonged dogfights.

They dived from high altitude, delivering a brief lethal strike, then used their speed advantage to pull up again, preparing the next dive.

Suddenly, another damaged Falcon trailed a long black plume; its Pilot parachuted, the white canopy standing out sharply against the azure sky.

"It's a devil! The one parachuting is a devil!" someone shouted.

In an instant, the crowd boiled over. Those who had just been fleeing, those trembling in shelters, now seemed infused with boundless strength.

From all directions, from air‑raid shelters, from streets and alleys, they rushed toward the Pilot's landing direction like madmen.

"Grab him! Don't let him get away!"

"Kill that Little Japan!"

"He bombed my son to death! I want him to pay with his life!"

Faces twisted by anger, eyes burning with hatred. They wielded shoulder poles, knives, wooden sticks, even bare fists.

They were not after loot nor any interrogation value; they simply wanted to tear the sky‑borne foe to pieces by the most primitive, direct means.

This is the people of Chongqing.

They can endure the Japanese Army's bombings, and when they see the enemy, erupt with the most primal, decisive fury. Their hatred for the Japanese Army has seeped into their bones, etched into their souls.

Jiang Anguo's C-47, under the escort of two P-40s, struggled to lower its altitude and pull away from the combat zone.

Through the port window, he watched the boiling land below and the crowds rushing toward the parachutes, feeling a tremendous shock in his heart.

He finally understood why he fought.

He fought not merely for a family or an ideal, but for the people of this land who, though suffering greatly, never yielded.

The aerial battle was drawing to a close. The Japanese Army formation was completely scattered, suffering heavy losses; the few remaining aircraft fled in panic, daring not to cross the danger line again.

Chongqing's sky temporarily regained its calm.

But on the ground, the chase ignited by hatred had only just begun. The white canopies ultimately fell into a sea of anger and revenge.

Chongqing's sky, the smoke not yet cleared, the air thick with the acrid smell of scorched metal and gunpowder. That brief, brutal melee, like a bolt of lightning across the heavens, though gone, left an eternal imprint on the city and all who witnessed it.

That day later entered the annals as the "522 Air Battle."

When Jiang Anguo's C-47 transport steadied on the runway of Bai Shi Station Airport, his heart still hammered violently in his chest. He stepped down the gangway, and the first thing he saw were seven scarred P-40 fighters, lion‑like as if returning from a blood‑soaked battle.

They landed one after another, each fuselage riddled with bullet holes; some wings were missing, some tails pocked like wasp nests, and one had a nose blackened by soot, clearly from an engine fire. They seemed to have exhausted their last ounce of strength, leaving long tracks on the runway before finally collapsing on the tarmac.

Ground crew rushed forward like lunatics, brandishing fire extinguishers and toolboxes, their faces a mix of ecstatic joy and tears.

"They're back! Our heroes are back!"

"Quick! Quickly check the fuel tanks and engines! See if they can still be repaired!"

However, the euphoria was soon replaced by harsh reality.

One, two, three… seven.

When the seventh P-40's engine died, the entire airport fell into dead silence. Everyone stared upward, fixed on the empty sky, as if praying with their eyes for an eighth, a ninth… a miracle.

But the sky offered nothing, only a few wisps of smoke blown apart by the wind.

Twelve eagles set out, only seven returned.

The news quickly spread across Chongqing via radio and war correspondents: Japanese aircraft suffered heavy losses, with thirteen Falcons confirmed shot down and eight Type 97 heavy bombers!

It was an unprecedented massive victory! A thoroughly satisfying revenge!

The signal canceling the air‑raid alarm rang through the clouds; those hidden in shelters poured out. Hearing the victory news, the whole mountain city erupted in thunderous cheers.

People embraced, crying with joy, rushing to tell each other. It was the first overwhelmingly decisive victory in years when facing Japanese aircraft.

However, when photos of those seven lone, scar‑riddled P-40s reached the city, the cheers gradually faded, replaced by a deeper silence mixed with pride and heartache.

An elderly man with white hair, looking at the newspaper photo, let cloudy old tears run down his wrinkled face. He muttered, "We won… but our kids can't come back either…"

They did not know that the faces among them were not Huaxia people, but United States pilots exchanged by Jiang Anguo.

At the airport, the surviving Pilots crawled out of the cockpits. Their faces were as pale as paper, bodies smeared with oil and blood, eyes hollow, as if their souls still lingered in that sky of blood and fire.