Chapter 320: June 1916 — Collapse of the Eastern Front and Stalemate on the Western Front

What about the travel expense standard?

"Fifty Lanfang dollars per person," Chen Feng said, "enough for them to buy a ticket to Shanghai and have a little extra for a small business."

Huang Mingda calculated quickly: "Twenty thousand people, if all return, that's one million. But in reality it shouldn't be that many."

"Even if it's one million, it's worth it," Chen Feng said. "Remember, we're not giving handouts, we're investing. These people work, live, and pay taxes in Lanfang; their children will study, grow, and build the country here. This investment will have a high return rate."

Typical merchant thinking, but Huang Mingda had to admit that this mindset is very effective. Combining morality with profit is what makes good deeds endure.

The registration work lasted the whole day. By eight p. m., all 20,327 people had completed registration, medical exams, and preliminary placement. Of them, 12,000 chose to go to Borneo, 6,000 stayed in Dubai, 2,000 wanted to go to Singapore, and the rest were still considering or wanted to return to China.

The temporary mess hall at the dock served steaming dishes: rice, braised pork, stir‑fried greens, and egg soup. For laborers who had subsisted on months of moldy bread and salted fish, it was a feast.

Chen Feng also stayed for dinner. Holding his tray, he sat with the laborers. At first everyone was reserved, but seeing him eat with relish, they began to relax.

"President," a middle‑aged laborer mustered the courage to ask, "Can we really settle in Lanfang? We won't be driven out again someday, will we?"

Chen Feng set down his chopsticks and looked at him seriously: "What is your name?"

"My name is Li Fugui, from Hebei."

"Li Fugui, I guarantee you in my capacity as President of the Lanfang Republic: as long as you obey the law and fend for yourselves, Lanfang is your home. No one can drive you out, not even me."

He looked around the laborers: "You may have heard that Lanfang is a Chinese nation. But I tell you, Lanfang is not only a Chinese nation, it is a modern nation. Here we don't judge your background or origin, only your effort and contribution. As long as you are willing to work for this country, it will protect you, respect you, and give you a future."

Applause rose, at first sparse, then growing more fervent. Many people clapped while shedding tears.

After dinner, Chen Feng returned to the Presidential Office. Though weary, he let Huang Mingda stay.

"The resettlement work is only the beginning," Chen Feng said. "Next we must prepare the second and third waves of repatriation. This time it's twenty thousand people; the next could be thirty thousand, or even more."

"We don't have enough vessels," Huang Mingda said bluntly. "All the merchant ships we can mobilize have been used. If we need another large‑scale repatriation, we must either charter ships or build new ones."

"The safety of our compatriots comes first!"

Mud.

Endless mud.

Wu Teng Xin Yi stepped alternately deep and shallow on the newly seized Russian position, each lift of his boot kicking up sticky black mud. The bandage tied around his left wrist was so dirty its original color was invisible, and rainwater mixed with unknown grime seeped from its edges.

"Hey! Wu Teng! Come look at this!"

Sergeant Shan Kou of the squad waved from a short distance. Wu Teng walked over and saw Shan Kou crouching in front of a half‑collapsed Russian machine‑gun bunker. Inside lay two corpses: one blown beyond recognition by a Shell, the other appearing to be a young soldier with three neat bullet holes in his chest—a hallmark of the Model‑1911 light machine gun.

"Our machine gun hit them," Shan Kou said, pointing at the holes, his tone oddly proud. "Three shots, all hit."

Wu Teng gave no reply. He stared at the young face—no older than eighteen, pale‑gold hair pressed to the forehead, eyes still open, blue pupils frozen in final terror. The face reminded Wu Teng of the boys crowding the Nagasaki port during farewells, watching the spectacle.

"Search their bodies," Sergeant Zuoteng came over, his voice hoarse. "See if there are any maps or documents."

Shan Kou crouched and began rifling through the corpse's pockets. Wu Teng turned and looked at the freshly captured position.

As far as the eye could see, it was all war debris.

The blown‑over trench resembled a gash in the earth, twisted barbed wire hung with torn uniform fragments, charred tree trunks stood alone, and in the distance a few abandoned Russian wagons lay, their draft horses collapsed in the mud with bellies swollen like balloons.

Further away, the retreating Russian column stretched like a gray serpent, sluggishly slithering along the muddy road. Sporadic artillery shells fell among them, raising plumes of black smoke, yet the fleeing troops did not halt, merely skirted the craters and kept withdrawing.

"Three hundred kilometers," Sergeant Zuoteng lit a cigarette and took a hard drag. "The reports say the Russians fell back three hundred kilometers in one go. All of Poland, Lithuania, and that swath of western Belarus are now ours."

Shan Kou pulled a soaked notebook and several blurry photos from the corpse's pockets and handed them to Zuoteng: "Sergeant, that's all."

Zuoteng flipped through the notebook casually—it was all unreadable Russian. He tossed it back to Shan Kou: "Hand them over. The photos… burn them."

Shan Kou was startled: "Burn them?"

"Do you want to keep them to look at?" Zuoteng stared at him. "They're someone's family."

Shan Kou silently pressed the photos to the cigarette tip. They curled, blackened, and turned into a small pile of ash that fell onto the mud.

"Wu Teng," Zuoteng turned to him, "How's your wound?"

Wu Teng lifted his left hand and wiggled his fingers. "It still moves. The field medic said the bone's intact, just a muscle strain."

"That's good," Zuoteng exhaled a puff. "The orders say our division will rest for two weeks. I heard the home front is already preparing a victory parade."

"Victory…" Shan Kou stood, kicking a clod of mud, "How many of us have died?"

Zuoteng gave no answer. He looked toward the makeshift cemetery newly erected behind the position—dozens of fresh pits, each marked with a wooden plaque handwritten with the fallen's name and unit number.

Fifth Company: forty‑one killed, thirty‑eight seriously wounded, sixty‑seven lightly wounded.

Wu Teng remembered the figure. The assault three days earlier had nearly wiped out the entire company. The reinforcements now were eighteen‑ or nineteen‑year‑old kids, some unable to hold a rifle steady.

"Sergeant," a runner shouted, splashing through the mud, "The brigade orders all squads to assemble at Area Three; there's an important notice!"

Area Three had once been a Russian artillery position, now piled with Japanese supply crates. Over two hundred soldiers stood sparsely, their uniforms caked in mud, many with blood that hadn't been wiped clean.

Colonel Tanaka, the brigade commander, stood on a makeshift podium built from ammunition boxes, holding a telegraph sheet, his face alight with barely contained excitement.