Chapter 120: Exercise 3

Report to the President, the first batch of two hundred family housing units has been completed and will be ready for occupancy next month. Priority will be given to the families of soldiers who have completed three years of service with outstanding performance.

"Zhou Afu," Chen Feng turned his head to look at him, "when you finish three years of service, if you are still an excellent soldier, you may apply to have your family join you early. You can occupy the house first, and the property rights will be processed after you reach five years."

Zhou Afu widened his eyes, his lips moved, but he said nothing.

"What, you don't want to?"

"Willing... willing!" Zhou Afu stood up, his eyes reddened, "Thank you, President!"

"Sit," Chen Feng indicated, "no need to thank me; this is what you earned with sweat and loyalty. Lanfang does not overlook those who shed blood and sweat for her."

He looked around at the soldiers at the same table:

"You all are. Train well, serve well, Lanfang will not forget you. The houses will come, the family reunions will come, the good days will come."

The soldiers nodded vigorously, a spark in their eyes.

After the meal, Chen Feng did not leave immediately. He asked the kitchen squad to bring a bucket of hot water and washed his own lunchbox—just like the soldiers. Then he walked to the sink outside the mess hall and watched the soldiers clean their utensils.

"President," Zhao Dashan whispered, "would you like to rest a bit? There's a meeting this afternoon..."

"Not urgent," Chen Feng said, "I want to watch the night training."

"Night training starts at nine o'clock."

"Then I'll wait until nine."

Zhao Dashan had no choice but to assign Chen Feng to the regiment's lounge. But Chen Feng did not rest; he went to the armory display room to inspect the equipment guarded by the Third Regiment.

Machine guns, submachine guns, heavy machine guns, and various grenades, explosives, engineer equipment... all polished to a gleaming shine.

"All maintained by the soldiers themselves?" Chen Feng asked.

"Yes. Each soldier is responsible for his weapon, cleaning daily and disassembling for maintenance weekly," Zhao Dashan said, "Our guns were designed with easy upkeep in mind, at most thirty‑four parts, which every soldier can master."

Chen Feng picked up a submachine gun, pulled the bolt, and inspected the barrel. His movements were practiced, clearly not his first time handling a gun.

"Chief Engineer Liu," he suddenly asked, "what production capacity does our ordnance factory have now?"

Liu Yongfu took a notebook from his bag:

"Currently we can produce per month: 2,000 rifles, 100 light machine guns, 50 heavy machine guns, 300 submachine guns, twenty 75‑mm infantry guns, eight 105‑mm howitzers, and three hundred tons of assorted ammunition. If we run at full capacity, we could increase that by thirty percent."

"Enough to equip how many divisions?"

"According to the First Division's establishment, it could equip one and a half divisions. But we need reserves, rotations, exports... In practice we can only sustain continuous supply for one fully‑manned division."

"Too slow," Chen Feng said, "I need, by the end of 1913, to equip at least three full divisions and have sufficient reserves."

Liu Yongfu calculated quickly: "That would require tripling the current capacity. We need to build two new ordnance factories, expand the special steel plant, and train at least five thousand technical workers."

"What about the money?"

"Preliminary budget... three million pounds sterling."

"Approved," Chen Feng said without hesitation, "allocate it from the South Ocean Homecoming Fund. Wang Bo, write it down."

Wang Bo wrote in the notebook, the brush rustling.

"But President," Liu Yongfu hesitated, "could this be... too radical? Our civilian industry also needs funds."

"Civilian industry is important," Chen Feng turned, "but the defense industry is the foundation. Without guns, everything we build becomes prey for others. The Claw Hollow Incident taught us one thing—"

He paused:

"When you have power, others will reason with you. When you lack power, they will only speak bullets."

Liu Yongfu fell silent. He knew Chen Feng was right.

"Three years," Chen Feng said, looking at the soldiers outside the window, "we still have three years. In 1913 we will begin the road home. Before then, we must have a sufficiently strong army to protect us on that journey."

At nine p. m., the night training began.

The training ground had only a few searchlights on, most of the area shrouded in darkness. The soldiers were split into red and blue sides for night‑combat drills. The red side, where Zhou Afu was, was tasked with infiltrating the blue side's position and destroying the command post.

There was no moonlight, and the starlight was faint. Zhou Afu crawled forward in the dark with the squad leader, navigating by compass and map. His machine gun was wrapped in cloth to prevent glare and rattling.

"Stop," Squad Leader Wang Tie Zhu whispered.

About thirty meters ahead, a sentinel's silhouette appeared.

The squad leader gestured: Zhou Afu provided cover while the others flanked. Zhou Afu set up his machine gun; through the sight, the sentinel's shape flickered in the dim light.

The flanking comrades reached behind the sentinel, sprang up suddenly, and "shot dead" the sentinel. The whole action was silent.

"Continue forward."

They crossed the marked minefield area, skirted the barbed wire, and avoided patrols. The focus of night training was not shooting but infiltration, reconnaissance, and coordination. Zhou Afu found that in the dark his hearing became unusually sharp—he could distinguish wind, insects, and distant footsteps.

An hour later they reached the perimeter of the blue side's command post. It was a canvas tent lit by a gasoline lamp, with silhouettes moving inside.

"Prepare for a strong assault," the squad leader ordered.

【48】 Zhou Afu's machine gun was positioned on high ground, sealing all exits. The other comrades split into three squads and surged in from different directions.

Only a few floodlights were lit on the training field; most of the area lay in darkness. The soldiers split into red and blue teams for night combat drills. Zhou Afu's red team was tasked with infiltrating the blue side's position and destroying the "command post."

"Three, two, one, move!"

The machine gun fired—using blank rounds—but the muzzle flash was still dazzling in the darkness. The comrades rushed into the tent, and a shout of "surrender weapons, no killing" echoed inside.

Thirty seconds later the battle ended. The blue command post was "destroyed," and the commander was "captured."

The training ended, and the debrief began. Regimental Commander Zhao Dashan turned on a high‑intensity light, illuminating the field like daylight.

"The red side performed well," he said, "the infiltration route was chosen wisely, coordination was seamless, the attack decisive. But there is a problem—"

He walked to Zhou Afu's machine‑gun position:

"In night combat, muzzle flash reveals your position. Zhou Afu, after you fire you must relocate within three seconds, but you lingered five seconds. In real combat those extra two seconds would give the enemy's mortar enough time to blast you sky‑high."

"Yes!" Zhou Afu stood at attention.

"Remember, in night combat the point of fire is a suicide point. Shoot and run, relocate before firing again."

"Understood!"

After the debrief, it was already eleven p. m. The soldiers trudged back to the barracks, bodies exhausted but spirits still high— the President was still watching.

Chen Feng walked to the center of the field, where a stone monument stood, erected when the base was built. The tablet had been blank, but today he had someone prepare ink and brush.

"Captain Zhao."

"Here."

"I say, you write."

Zhao Dashan took the brush and soaked it fully in ink.

Chen Feng looked at the night sky, at the countless stars, and began slowly:

"First line: forge swords into plows, waiting for the day."

Zhao Dashan wrote these eight characters on the stone tablet. The ink spread on the stone, sturdy and forceful.

"Second line: Soldiers are the shield that guards the home, not the spear that plunders others."

Another eight characters.

"Third line: Today's arduous training is so that tomorrow we need not take up arms."

The final row.

When finished, Chen Feng took the brush and signed his name in the lower right corner: Chen Feng, June 1, 1910.

He set down the brush and said to the soldiers gathered around:

"These three sentences are the oath of the Lanfang army. We forge swords not for invasion, but for protection. We train hard not for war, but to make the enemy dare not attack us."

He paused:

"When the day comes that we return home and the South Ocean is at peace, these guns and cannons can be melted down, forged into plows, into hoes, into school desks for the children. That would be the finest destiny for this steel."

The soldiers listened quietly. The night wind blew, carrying the desert's coolness.

Zhou Afu looked at the characters on the stone tablet; although some were still unclear to him, he understood the meaning: being a soldier is not to kill, but to prevent others from killing you.

That is enough.

Chen Feng gave the soldiers one last glance, turned and walked toward the convoy. Before boarding, he turned back and said:

"Train well. When you have mastered it, I will take you home."

The vehicle left the training base, its taillights fading into the darkness.

Zhou Afu stood before the stone tablet, stared for a long time. Then he stood at attention and saluted.