Chapter 41: Yamamoto Beaten Into Questioning His Existence

Yamamoto Ichiki lowered his voice and issued his command with cold resolve.

"Disperse! Maintain tactical formation! Advance at speed!"

The strike team scattered instantly. This elite unit, into which Yamamoto had poured his heart and soul—modeled after the Brandenburg special forces—possessed individual skill and tactical discipline of an exceptionally high level.

However, just as they were about to clear the cliff area and step into the relatively open woodland ahead where they could pick up speed—

"Who goes there? Give the password!"

Yamamoto’s heart skipped a beat, and he slammed to a halt. By the light of the moon, he saw a makeshift defensive position constructed from rocks and earthworks ahead, populated by no more than twenty or thirty shadowy figures.

A single platoon. Just one platoon!

A slight, cruel smirk curled his lips, and a murderous glint flashed in his eyes.

"Wipe out these Chinese pigs within three minutes! Leave no one alive!"

"Hai!"

A fierce, predatory light ignited in the eyes of the hundred-plus special forces soldiers. Following the tactics they had practiced countless times, they lowered their bodies and tightened into a fan-shaped assault formation, preparing to crush this insignificant resistance with a textbook strike.

Yet, just as the "Yamato Spirit" commandos prepared to annihilate this small group of enemies, six streams of fire simultaneously erupted from the enemy line.

"Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta—!!!"

Six MG42s formed a crossfire net, unleashing a hail of bullets upon the uninvited guests. The seven or eight elite commandos leading the charge, moving at the fastest pace, did not even have time to attempt evasive maneuvers before they were riddled with holes.

"Baka! It’s heavy machine guns!"

"Take cover! Everyone down! It’s a heavy machine gun nest!"

Yamamoto was struck with shock. He wasn't surprised that they had heavy machine guns; he knew the Eighth Route Army had recently acquired many. But the problem was that this was just a single platoon! A single platoon with six heavy machine guns? It was absurd, a total fantasy!

He knew that a single heavy machine gun required an entire squad to operate. He had studied the Eighth Route Army; their platoons consisted of only three squads, a total of about thirty men. Even if all three squads were machine gun crews, there should be at most three heavy machine guns! How could there possibly be six?

Yamamoto was momentarily bewildered. But relying on years of combat experience, he suppressed his shock and issued rapid orders.

"First, Second, and Third squads! Left flank! Take out those three guns on the left! Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth squads! Right flank! Neutralize the three on the right! Move quickly!"

He had brought ten full squads! Over a hundred of the Empire's finest special forces soldiers! If he couldn't even take a single platoon's position, he might as well commit ritual suicide.

The six squads receiving the order quickly adjusted their formation, using the terrain for cover as they closed in on the machine gun positions on the flanks. Heavy machine guns were formidable, but if the enemy crawled forward using the terrain, they were largely helpless—unless they entered a "frenzy" mode and expended ammunition without restraint. Evidently, the Eighth Route Army remained as frugal as ever; seeing the Japanese soldiers hit the dirt, they ceased their machine gun fire.

However, when these Japanese soldiers were still over a hundred meters from the position, the soldiers of the platoon suddenly revealed a dozen submachine guns and automatic rifles. Every AK-47 was toggled to full-auto.

"Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta—!!!"

Another dozen tongues of fire roared toward them.

"It’s submachine guns! Retreat, quickly!"

The six squads withdrew immediately. Yamamoto’s face turned ashen. The enemy possessed a massive quantity of submachine guns. Even in the Imperial Army, such weapons were only equipped by a few special teams.

"Could the intelligence have been leaked? Did they know we were coming?"

Only this could explain why such terrifying heavy firepower appeared in a minor defensive position. With this thought, the urge to retreat took hold. Since they had been exposed, there was no point in continuing the fight. There might even be a larger trap waiting for him ahead.

"Bakayaro!"

"Mission failed! Objective compromised! Everyone—retreat immediately! Return the way we came! Move!"

Yamamoto spat the order through gritted teeth. It had to be said that this old fox possessed high tactical acumen; when it was time to be decisive, he did not hesitate. The "Yamato Spirit" strike team began to crawl back the way they came. They dared not stand up; those six heavy machine guns were like six scythes of death—to stand was to die. The Imperial elites, who had been so aggressive just moments ago, were instantly reduced to stray dogs.

Yamamoto felt utterly humiliated. This was the first time his "Yamato Spirit," into which he had poured his blood and sweat, had unsheathed its blade, only to retreat from the battlefield in such a disgraceful and wretched manner. It was an absolute shame!

As the soldiers scrambled out of the machine gun range, Yamamoto gasped for air and turned to count his men. At a single glance, a surge of metallic-tasting bile rose to his throat, and his vision went black.

Of the one hundred and twenty elite Imperial commandos who had departed, fewer than one hundred remained standing. That single burst of machine gun fire had claimed over twenty of his men.

"Ba—ka—!!!"

Yamamoto stared at the small Eighth Route Army position, his eyes bloodshot.

"I, Yamamoto Ichiki, swear that if I do not avenge this, I am no man!"

He would return and demand of筱冢 (Shinozuka) how the information had leaked, causing his special forces to suffer such devastating losses.

...

On the other side, at the platoon's position, seeing the Japanese soldiers scurrying away like beaten dogs, the soldiers were flushed with excitement, their blood boiling.

"Haha! Those goddamn Japanese! They run faster than rabbits!"

"Satisfying! Truly satisfying!"

"These new toys are damn impressive!"

By the moonlight, they could roughly discern that the enemy force had been about the size of a company. A hundred men, and they hadn't even been able to break through a single platoon's position! This gave them the most intuitive and shocking realization of the power of their new weapons.

A young soldier couldn't contain himself and shouted excitedly, "Platoon leader! The Japanese are running! Let's chase them! Let's beat the dog in the water!"

The platoon leader looked in the direction the Japanese had vanished and shook his head.

"Chase, my foot! Our mission is to nail ourselves here and hold this cliff pass! The company commander will be here soon; we follow the company commander's orders!"

The platoon leader was a veteran and was not intoxicated by the victory. The young soldier felt a bit unwilling. "But, just letting the Japanese run away like this..."

The platoon leader smiled. "Then... let's send them a few more rounds of mortar fire!"

Since the area ahead was mountainous and uninhabited, it didn't matter if the shots weren't accurate. The soldiers grew excited again and quickly set up three mortars, opening fire in the direction of the retreating Japanese.

"Whoosh—!"

"Whoosh—!"

"Whoosh—!"

Three shells whistled through the air.

Ahead, Yamamoto was terrified.

"Mortars! Disperse—"