Chapter 299: The Battle of Xiaoting (II)

At that moment, a clamor of engine roars and the sound of wheels crushing stone came from the rear.

Luo Dashan, drenched in sweat, was commanding the soldiers to push forward, and watching those artillery wagons slipping in the mud, he was fuming, his seven orifices smoking, and he shouted profanities:

"You turtle sons! When you eat meat you're all faster than anyone, running happier than a dog! Now that the real fight is on, you push a cannon with a squeak, like old women doing embroidery! Hurry! Push with all your might! One more step slower and the yellow flower veg will be cold!"

He was anxious; seeing the front blazing, if his First Battalion lagged even a beat and let the Independent Regiment snatch the first achievement, it would be a minor issue not being able to report to the Regiment Commander, but where that face ends up is a serious matter.

It turned out that earlier Jiang Anguo, to boost the 150th Division's assault capability, had spared no expense. According to Jiang Anguo's allocation standards, each 448th Regiment was additionally equipped with a full eight 94-type mountain guns.

Luo Dashan's First Battalion, being the sharpest tip of the whole 448th Regiment, an assault battalion, naturally received better treatment, and three of those big pieces came along with it.

Having more is useless, and few can use them; even now Luo Dashan's artillery Platoon only knows how to fire, and whether it's accurate will have to be seen after firing.

That's normal; on the battlefield, the most lethal weapon is still artillery, regardless of accuracy—fire first, then worry about it later; this can be called indirect fire support!

In that era of scarce rifles and artillery, a battalion possessing three mountain guns was a downright "tycoon"-level setup, something previously unimaginable.

"Battalion Commander! Gun carriage ready! Ammunition positioned!"

An artilleryman, drenched in sweat, ran over, wiped the mud from his face, and reported loudly.

When Luo Dashan heard it, his eyes lit up, the anxious energy instantly turned into the thrill of commanding thunder. He stepped forward a few paces, squinted at the distant Japanese Army positions; though far enough to see no people, the area with the densest gunfire was surely the Japanese Devil's lair.

"Fire!" Luo Dashan roared, a truly bold command.

It was his first time commanding a mountain gun with such gusto; the feeling was simply exhilarating.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Accompanied by three earth‑shaking booms, the 94-type mountain gun's massive barrel spewed blazing fire. The huge shell, roaring with angry whine, flew precisely across the battlefield and slammed into Song Jing Wu Zhi's head.

Compared with the tickling explosions of mortars, the mountain gun's power was sheer devastation. The distant Japanese Army position was instantly overturned, several large trees were blown cleanly in half, and the hidden machine‑gun nests behind them were sent skyward.

Watching the fireball rise ahead, Luo Dashan was filled with emotion and couldn't help exclaiming, "Tsk tsk, we never dared fire like this before…"

Thinking back, not even a reinforced company equipped with a few 60 mm light mortars could be afforded; that would have required burning incense.

Moreover, back then we were poor; shells were as precious as lifeblood, you could count them on one hand.

During training we were reluctant to use live rounds, only waving wooden dummies; on the actual battlefield we wished we could split the shells in half and flower them.

Not like now?

Regiment Commander Jiang Anguo's resources were so abundant that we fought without blinking.

That kind of ruthless joy of burying the enemy with shells was damn exhilarating!

"Duan Qiang, Duan Qiang, you skinny calf, come over here, find the Battalion Commander for me, I need artillery support," Mi Long couldn't stand it; if he fell behind, that was unacceptable.

Mi Long! A person lives only to fight for that breath of life!

"Coming, Company Commander," Duan Qiang, hunched over, was about to come over.

A low, dense buzzing suddenly filled the air, like countless huge wasps beating their wings, or like a muffled thunder rolling deep in the clouds.

At first the sound was drowned out by the front-line gunfire, but in an instant it surged forward, becoming deafening.

The roar of aircraft sounded.

"Zzzzz—"

A sudden sharp crackle of electricity rang out. The big device strapped behind the Messenger, an SCR-300 backpack radio, was jolted awake, startling the Messenger, and emitted a clear voice.

It was no longer the dull Morse tones, but a genuine human voice, though tinged with static, it stood out clearly amid the chaotic battlefield:

"This is Ghost Squad, arriving on the battlefield in one minute, please mark the ground target."

It was Mandarin with a foreign flavor, the tone a bit odd, yet it carried a reassuring certainty.

Mi Long laughed as soon as he heard it; there was no mistaking it—it was the American William of the flight squadron. Though a foreigner, his piloting skill and ferocity against the Japanese Devil earned Mi Long's respect.

Yesterday's smooth capture of Yidu also owed everything to those airborne guys; they were spot on every time.

He snatched the microphone from the Messenger, pressed it to his mouth, disregarding any military discipline, and shouted hoarsely:

"Received! This is First Battalion, First Company, I'll make you see clearly right now!"

With the mic on, Mi Long couldn't help clicking his tongue. This gadget is still the best! Thinking of the old‑style radios, you had to tap out Morse, translate for ages, and the yellow flower veg would be cold.

The SCR-300 is divine, placed right by the ear for shouting, like talking face‑to‑face; this is what modern warfare looks like!

But its range is limited; the batch of backpack radios exchanged by Jiang Anguo has a range of fifteen kilometers, assuming no external factors like mountainous terrain.

At this very moment, two thousand meters above.

A deep‑green painted P‑38 fighter, like a hawk, swooped over the land below. Squadron Leader William stared intently at the lush, deadly valley, his finger lightly caressing the control stick.

His voice, transmitted over the radio channel, reached clearly into the ears of every Ghost Squad member behind him:

"Ghost Team One, attention! Descend altitude by one thousand, ground forces marked, prepare to attack the Japanese Army on the ground. Let's give those Japanese Devils a splash of color!"

"Received, Leader!"

"Understood! We'll send them back home!"

The pilots responded enthusiastically. For these airborne knights, the fortifications and camouflage that plagued infantry were nothing but live targets.

Whoosh—!

On the ground, Mi Long abruptly raised his flare gun and pulled the trigger toward the sky.

He felt the move was very cool, but he also knew the opposite side were Little Devils; seeing the firepower, with several hundred Devils, he instantly crouched low and hid behind a stone.

A vivid red flare, trailing a long tail of smoke, pierced the gray morning mist, soaring into the clouds. In the dim sky, that streak of red was blindingly bright.

This scene was caught on the eyes of the Japanese Army company commander Song Jing Wu Zhi on the opposite bank.

He was drawing his command sword, head held high, ready to order his men to charge, to break through the Chinese Army's lines in one surge.

Seeing that strange flare rise, he froze, his brows knitting into a 'river' shape.

"Strange, why is the Huaxia Army firing a flare…" he muttered.

He lifted his head for a glance, and in that instant his pupils contracted violently, his heart seeming to stop.

In the distance, the once gray‑white sky held several black dots rapidly enlarging and approaching. Those were not birds, but aircraft!

Before Song Jing Wu Zhi could shout "Cover!", the whistling sound had already reached overhead…