Chapter 119: Bicycle‑ization, Wait Two Years to Build Motorcycles

Item five: a full‑division mobility demonstration.

The most spectacular scene arrived. Hundreds of "flying swallow"‑style military bicycles rolled out of the assembly area, each carrying a fully armed soldier. The wheels left neat tracks in the sand, and the convoy moved at fifteen kilometres per hour.

"One division…" the Brazilian officer said, eyes wide, "All of it converted to bicycles?"

"Not all of it," Lanfang's accompanying officer explained. "Each infantry regiment is assigned two hundred bicycles for rapid mobility. If necessary, everyone can ride, covering eighty kilometres a day."

"Eighty kilometres…" the Argentine officer calculated quickly, "From Buenos Aires to Rosario is only three hundred kilometres, so four days would be enough."

The convoy circled the field three times, then the soldiers dismounted and swiftly formed a skirmish line, entering the defensive positions. The whole process, from mobility to deployment, took less than ten minutes.

"This mobility…" the Chilean officer murmured, "In South America's terrain, railways are limited, roads are poor, a bicycle unit is basically…"

"A nightmare," his adjutant replied. "To the enemies they wish to chase, they are a nightmare; to the enemies that want to chase them, they are also a nightmare."

All demonstrations concluded at ten a. m. Officers from each nation were invited to tour the static equipment exhibition area, where every weapon used today was displayed, with technicians providing explanations.

Zhou Afu stood beside his machine gun, responsible for answering questions about it. A Deguo officer approached and asked in halting English:

"This gun, did you design it yourselves?"

"Yes, sir," Zhou Afu replied standing at attention.

"Who was the designer?"

"It was the engineering team of our ordnance factory. The President gave the design requirements, and they spent eight months completing the design and testing."

"Failure rate?"

"In live‑fire tests, there is on average one malfunction per five thousand rounds. The main issue is ammunition feed from the drum; we are improving it."

The Deguo officer picked up the machine gun, hefted its weight, glanced at the sights, and inspected the bolt mechanism. His expression shifted from doubt to seriousness, and finally to admiration.

"A very good design," he said. "Much lighter than our MG08, more suitable for infantry to carry. May I take a photo?"

"You may, but you may not disassemble it."

The Deguo officer took a picture and quickly jotted notes in his notebook. Zhou Afu watched him write a line of German; although he didn't understand it, he guessed it was praising the gun.

On the other side, the British officer was asking about the technical details of the "Soaring Wind‑1" radio. The presenter was a young female engineer—a rarity at the time.

"What is the frequency range?"

"1.5 to 12 megahertz, sir."

"Power?"

"Transmit power 15 watts, receive sensitivity 0.5 microvolts."

"What about the battery?"

"Lead‑acid battery, four kilograms, can support continuous operation for eight hours. We have a matching solar charging panel; on a sunny day it can be fully charged in six hours."

The Yingguo officer widened his eyes: "Solar… charging?"

"Yes," the female engineer said, pointing to a black panel beside her. "This is a silicon photovoltaic panel we developed ourselves. Though its efficiency is not high yet, it is useful in desert regions."

"Incredible..." the officer murmured, "You can even make this..."

The tour continued until one p. m. At the close, Chen Feng gave a brief concluding speech:

"What you saw today is not Lanfang's ultimate capability, but a starting point. We believe that defense modernization must be built on an independent industrial foundation. We are willing to share experience with all friendly nations, but core technologies and capabilities must remain in our own hands."

He paused briefly:

"Because history tells us that weapons given as charity by others can never protect our own homeland."

Applause rose. It was not vigorous, but it was sincere. As the officers clapped, their eyes no longer showed contempt or curiosity, but faced—a suddenly emerging military power.

During the luncheon, Zhou Afu and his comrades sat in the soldiers' mess hall and could feel the shift in atmosphere. The serving staff who brought food looked at them with respect; their hands steadied while plating, and the meat portions were especially generous.

"Afu," Li Wen said between bites of chicken leg, "Did you see the foreigners' expressions? At first it was 'just looking at the spectacle', then 'this thing is interesting', now 'we have to study it seriously.'"

"Seen it," Zhou Afu said, shoveling rice. "The squad leader said we didn't embarrass Lanfang today."

"It's not just no embarrassment; it's a source of pride," Squad Leader Wang Tiezhu said, sitting down with his tray. "I just delivered equipment and heard two German officers discussing. One said, 'The equipment level of this unit already surpasses European countries.' The other added, 'Not just the gear, look at their training level, discipline, tactical literacy…'"

The squad leader took a sip of soup:

"They said, if this unit were given three years, it could defeat the European forces stationed throughout the East Indies."

Zhou Afu paused his chopsticks: "Really?"

"What the foreigners say isn't necessarily accurate," the squad leader said, "but at least it shows we're training in the right direction."

After the meal, the soldiers returned to the barracks to rest. There was still regular training in the afternoon, but the intensity would be lighter.

Zhou Afu lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. From outside, sporadic gunfire from a distant firing range drifted in, indicating other units were training.

He recalled that when the demonstration ended, President Chen Feng walked to the front of the soldiers' formation and said:

"What you displayed today is not a killing technique, but the ability to protect the homeland. Lanfang's muzzle will never be aimed at innocent people. But if anyone tries to take our home, to hurt our relatives—"

Chen Feng paused, his voice carrying far:

"Then the guns in your hands must make them understand what a price is."

Zhou Afu clenched his fists.

He would make anyone who tried to hurt his mother or sister understand the price.

Definitely.

June 1, 1910, 8:00 a. m.

When Chen Feng's convoy entered the training base, there was no prior notice. The guard at the gate recognized the license plate, saluted, and let them through, but did not have time to inform the interior.

The vehicle drove straight to the Third Regiment's training ground. When Chen Feng got out, Regiment Commander Zhao Daxian was leading the troops in morning drills; seeing the President arrive, he froze briefly, then hurried over.

"President, how did you—"

"Just passing by, taking a look," Chen Feng waved his hand. "Continue training, you don't need to accompany me."

But Zhao Daxian still stayed beside him. Chen Feng walked slowly across the training field, watching soldiers practice stabbing drills, crawling, and tactical coordination. Sweat left dark stains on the sand, and the chant voices were orderly and powerful.

"That soldier," Chen Feng said, pointing at a young soldier lying prone in the distance practicing aiming, "how long has he been training?"

"Zhou Afu, machine‑gunner, enlisted four months ago," Zhao Daxian said. "He performed excellently; the machine gun in the last demonstration was his."

Call him over.

When Zhou Afu was called over, he was covered in dust and still had sweat stains on his face. He ran to a point five meters in front of Chen Feng, stood at attention, saluted, his movements standard but slightly stiff.

President!

"Relax," Chen Feng smiled, "I heard you're good with a machine gun?"

"Reporting, President, I'm still learning."

"Have you had lunch today?"

Zhou Afu was startled for a moment: "Not yet… I trained until ten in the morning before I could have breakfast."

Chen Feng glanced at his watch: "Then it's perfect; I haven't eaten either. Commander Zhao, today I'll have lunch with the Third Regiment soldiers."

"Um… President, the canteen's conditions are spartan…"

"If the soldiers can eat it, I can too." Chen Feng patted Zhao Daxian's shoulder, "Let's go, lead the way."

The Third Regiment canteen was a large tent, with dozens of long tables and benches inside. Soldiers were queuing for their meals; when they saw the President walk in, they froze, and the line fell into a brief chaos.

"Continue, do what needs to be done." Chen Feng walked to the end of the line, "I'm a soldier today too, queuing for food."

Zhou Afu stood behind him, his palms sweating from nerves. The comrades ahead had finished eating, and it was Chen Feng's turn. The cook, an old mess sergeant, had trembling hands.

"Chef, just serve it normally," Chen Feng handed over the lunchbox.

Stewed beef with potatoes, stir‑fried greens, two corn buns, and a bowl of egg‑flower soup. Exactly the same as the soldiers'.

Chen Feng carried the lunchbox, walked to Zhou Afu's table and sat down. The soldiers at the same table immediately stood up.

"Sit, everyone sit," Chen Feng indicated, "During a meal there are no superiors or subordinates, only comrades."

The soldiers sat down anxiously. Zhou Afu glanced secretly at Chen Feng's lunchbox—indeed identical, the meat not abundant, the vegetables not lacking.

"How does it taste?" Chen Feng took a bite of the corn bun.

"Good… delicious," a soldier whispered.

"How does it compare to your hometown?"

"Much better than my hometown," Zhou Afu mustered courage and said, "In Chaozhou, we only get meat during the New Year. Here it's every day."

Chen Feng nodded, eating his meal slowly. He ate meticulously, breaking the bun into small pieces, taking the vegetables bite by bite, sipping the soup gradually. Unlike some officials who eat perfunctorily, he truly savored it.

"Zhou Afu," he suddenly asked, "Who else is in your family?"

"My mother and my younger sister. In Chaozhou."

"Do you want to bring them over?"

"I do. After I complete five years of service and get a house, I'll bring them over."

"Five years…" Chen Feng set down his chopsticks, "That's too long. Commander Zhao."

"Here."

"How's the progress of our Military Spouse Resettlement Plan?"