Chapter 422: White‑Hot

6:30 a. m.

The battle had entered a white‑hot stage.

Hu Xianqun's Tank Regiment had broken into the outskirts of Meimou Town, and Zhang Bing's Tank Battalion cut off the Japanese Army's retreat route to the south.

Sherman tanks used high‑explosive shells to clear the street barricades; a single shell demolished an entire courtyard wall, and the ambushed Japanese machine‑gun squad vanished instantly.

Boom—boom—boom!

The artillery roared.

Tank guns kept firing, without hurrying to enter Meimou; Jiang Anguo's sage maxim—if artillery can solve it, never let the soldiers charge forward.

"Set up the mortar!" Gao Jiren shouted loudly from behind the tank.

Soon, the 598 Regiment mortar team had completed the mortar emplacement.

At the same time, the following Transport Vehicle lowered the Type‑94 mountain gun mounted on it; the Artillery team quickly pushed the mountain gun to the front of the position, aiming its barrel at Meimou.

"Open fire freely, blow the Little Devil to pieces!" Gao Jiren finally gave the firing order.

The Artillery, indeed, left no margin at all, as if they wanted to hurl every shell at the Little Devil's heads.

This wasn't targeted elimination; it was outright fire‑cover.

Meimou is just a small town.

If the Little Devil hadn't stationed a regiment here, many would probably not know this place, but it is also the throat of the Shanbang Plateau.

After the Artillery exhausted all their shells, Gao Jiren issued the final attack order.

"Attack!"

Hu Xianqun's Tank Regiment again revved to full power, rolling forward.

The st Division Tank Regiment followed closely.

The 598 Regiment infantry surged into the breach like a tide, clearing the way with Hand Grenades, sweeping with submachine guns, and exterminating house by house.

A Japanese Second Lieutenant brandished his sword and charged out, shouting "Long live the Emperor!", only to be fired upon by three soldiers simultaneously, turned into a sieve.

"Keep advancing!" Gao Jiren gestured, "Don't stop! Don't give them a chance to regroup!"

Binben Xisanlang was at this moment in a desperate situation.

His regiment headquarters had been bombed flat, more than half of its troops lost, communications completely cut; the current 114th Regiment was like a mad dog with a broken spine—still snapping, but powerless to turn the tide.

"Regiment Commander, retreat! If you don't withdraw now you'll be surrounded!" the deputy grasped Binben Xisanlang's arm, pleading.

Binben Xisanlang's face was blackened with ash, his uniform ragged. He stared at the arrogant tanks in the distance, his eyes filled with despair and anger.

"The Imperial Japanese Army's face... has been completely disgraced..."

"Destroy the regiment flag!" Binben Xisanlang said helplessly at last.

He knew that at this moment a final decision had to be made!

"Yes, Regiment Commander!" the deputy hurried to find the flag‑guard squad.

The 114th Regiment's flag‑guard squad immediately set the regiment flag ablaze.

On the spot, a Japanese veteran, unable to bear it, drew his gun and killed himself.

It was his pride, but at that moment his pride collapsed.

At that moment, a T-34 tank smashed through the last earthen wall, entering Binben's line of sight. The tank's hull bore several un‑exploded Molotov bottles, and the red‑and‑white sun‑and‑white‑day emblem on its turret stood out vividly amid the smoke.

The T-34 did not fire directly; it simply rolled over.

Its tracks churned stone and mud, emitting a grating, teeth‑aching screech.

A few Japanese soldiers, crazed, charged forward brandishing bayonets, trying to die together, but were swept down by the T-34's machine gun as if cutting wheat.

Gao Jiren, leading the 598 Regiment troops, at this moment also surged forward with the T-34 tank; they coordinated seamlessly with the tank, using Hand Grenades together with submachine guns to clear the remaining Japanese bunkers.

"Surrender! You have already lost!" Chinese soldiers shouted in halting Japanese.

The answer was a few sporadic gunshots.

The T-34 halted, its gun barrel slowly depressed, aiming at a building still resisting.

"Boom!"

A deafening blast, the building collapsed halfway, several Japanese corpses buried beneath the rubble.

Hu Xianqun crawled out of his tank, looking around. Everywhere lay burning wreckage and Japanese corpses. Zhang Bing of the st Division Tank Regiment also arrived with several Sherman tanks.

"Old Zhang, well fought," Hu Xianqun patted Zhang Bing's shoulder, "Looks like we've taken Meimou."

Zhang Bing wiped the oil from his face, "Yes, but these devils are stubborn; Binben seems still inside."

At this point, the Company Commander of the 598 Regiment's assault company, Zhang Sheng, came over, holding a captured Japanese command sword, "Report, commanders, the assault company has secured Meimou's main street; the Japanese organized resistance has basically collapsed. In a ruin at the town center we found Binben Xisanlang's body; he committed seppuku."

Hu Xianqun took the command sword, drew the blade, looked at its cold, flashing pattern, and sneered, "Seppuku? At least he had some courage. But that changes nothing. We won!"

Zhang Bing nodded, and later the command sword was sent to the rear; after all, it was a regiment‑level commander's sword, impossible to keep privately.

8 a. m., the battle was completely over.

On Meimou's streets, the smoke had not yet cleared.

Thirty‑six T‑34s and twenty‑four Sherman tanks lined up neatly on the town‑center square, like a pride of lions fresh from the hunt.

Gao Jiren's infantry were clearing the battlefield, escorting the few Japanese prisoners.

It was a typical Infantry‑Tank Coordination three‑dimensional assault.

From the pre‑dawn air‑force pinpoint strikes, to the armored troops' thunderous thrust, to the infantry's final sweep, each phase flowed like clouds and water.

It could also be called a lightning war on the Myanmar battlefield; before the torrent of steel, Little Japan's brand of militarism was of no use.

Hu Xianqun stood on a tank turret, watching the rising sun pierce the clouds, shining on those steel behemoths. He knew this was only a local victory; a long road still lay before the invaders could be driven completely out of Myanmar.

"Regiment, the casualty report is ready," the deputy ran over holding a clipboard.

"Three T‑34s were damaged, five personnel lightly wounded; one Sherman destroyed, two damaged, three killed; the 598 Regiment suffered heavy losses, about a hundred men. For the Japanese, over 800 bodies, 128 prisoners, the 114th Regiment's structure essentially erased."

As for the bodies on the Japanese positions, none could be found; high‑explosive bombs from the sky, tank shells from the ground, artillery shells landing on the positions— even if a body were whole, after three rounds it would be impossible to find an intact one.

The whole Meimu is about to be flattened.

Hu Xianqun fell silent for a moment, nodded, and said, "Report the battle losses. Also, have the brothers hurry to repair the vehicles and refuel; we don't know when we'll set out again."

Zhang Bing walked over, holding a can of cola taken before departure, and handed it to Hu Xianqun: "Old Hu, this time we've shown our face. That old Japanese devil Binben probably never imagined we'd have such strong armored power."

Hu Xianqun took the cola, took a sip, feeling the sharp bubbles explode in his throat: "This is the power of industry. Back when I was in Germany, I envied German industry and German tanks. The Japanese's pitiful anti‑tank measures are already outdated before our current equipment. In this war, the final contest is still national strength."

At this moment, the sky roared again.

Several P‑38 Lightning fighters skimmed low over Meimu, their wings flapping as if saluting the comrades on the ground.

"Tell Captain William in the sky that the ground combat has been settled. They can return now." Gao Jiren, upon seeing the P‑38 Lightning in the sky, immediately had the adjutant contact the aircraft above.

Hu Xianqun, Zhang Bing, and Gao Jiren stood side by side, looking at the charred land, feeling both the joy of victory and mourning for the fallen comrades.

The Battle of Meimu was not only a tactical victory, but also a glorious chapter written by Huaxia armored troops in Myanmar.

The rumbling tread of the tracks sounded like an uplifting war song, heralding the approaching end of the fascist era.