Chapter 44: The Sichuan Army (Seeking Follow-up Reads and Votes)

...Except for their uniform caps, their attire was entirely a matter of personal whim. Umbrellas, towels, teapots, and straw sandals were all strung up by ropes tied to the muzzles of their rifles.

Some carried birdcages, others led dogs by leashes, and a few even cradled monkeys in their arms...

The above description of the Sichuan army's image during the early stages of the War of Resistance comes from a foreigner named Graham Peck, written in a book titled *Through China's Walls*.

I must admit that the military appearance of the Sichuan brothers was indeed wretched, and could even be described as comical; yet this did not detract in the slightest from how fiercely valiant they were when fighting the Japanese devils...

...Excerpts from Hu Biao's diary collection, *Hu's Sayings*...

"Staff Officer Liu, in the pitch black of this deep night, where are you planning to take us?"

Stealing the opportunity to inquire, Hu Biao approached with a ingratiating smile on his face, slipping over a pack of unopened coarse loose tobacco while speaking up.

It must be noted that all the items Hu Biao had brought over from the modern plane were subjected to a certain degree of disguise by that unknown, mysterious entity upon their arrival at the Songhu battlefield.

A pack of loose tobacco like this, when seen by Hu Biao and his men, naturally appeared as it would in the modern era.

Yet to the people of the Songhu battlefield—or rather, the people of this world—when they looked upon it, it transformed into the familiar "Old Sword" brand cigarettes, the kind without any filter tips.

Regarding this matter, Hu Biao had already confirmed it through Zhu Cong.

Faced with Hu Biao's questioning, Staff Officer Liu remained coldly indifferent, pushing away the pack of tobacco and offering a flat, detached reply:

"Cut the crap. You'll know when we get to where we're going."

"Damn it! Acting all high and mighty. That's one of only two packs of smokes I brought across, and I'm sure as hell not giving it to you anymore," Hu Biao muttered to himself inwardly after pulling back his cigarette.

In the moments that followed, Hu Biao and the others boarded a truck and set off.

The journey ahead was actually not very far—merely about twenty kilometers or so—yet it took nearly an hour and a half to complete.

The primary reason was that the road, which saw almost no pedestrian traffic during daylight hours, was now crowded with an astonishing number of troops, carts, mule-drawn wagons, and donkey carts all pressing forward.

Even along the narrow roadway, there were countless ordinary folk who, desperate to carry every single earthly possession they owned upon their backs, trudged amidst the throng, supporting the elderly and leading the young.

The combined total of soldiers and civilians was staggering, blocking the road at every turn.

As the truck jerked forward and stopped repeatedly, Uncle Bo, whose mood was already foul, could not help but vent his frustration:

"Are you out of your minds?! What the hell are we blindly tossing about for in the middle of the night? Can't this road be traveled during the day?"

As his voice trailed off, Hu Biao, the seasoned veteran, had not yet had a chance to say anything.

A private first class squatting in the truck bed—presumably stationed there to prevent them from escaping along the way—spoke up with a bitter expression:

"Of course we can't. By now, our air force has basically been wiped out; so the moment daylight breaks, the devils frequently send up these massive observation balloons. The moment our troops mobilize, they can see it.

Then the little devils' aircraft or artillery shells will come raining down.

Every single time an artillery bombardment or strafing run happens, the casualties are catastrophic. A battalion might lose an entire company, or perhaps even more.

After getting burned like that too many times, nowadays whatever we do has to be done under the cover of night."

Hearing this explanation, Chaozi instinctively wanted to offer a cynical remark or two, but remembering the trouble he was currently in just because he couldn't keep his mouth shut during the day, he promptly clamped his mouth shut again...

******

At around 11:00 PM, Hu Biao and his group finally arrived at their destination. Dismounting from the canvas-covered truck bed, they discovered they had been brought to an unexpected location: the Nanxiang Town railway station.

What surprised them even more was that they caught sight of an unexpected military force here: the Sichuan army.

Yes! The Sichuan army indeed. To be more precise, it was the 20th Army of the Sichuan forces, led by Yang Sen.

Totaling 12,000 men, they had received orders in early September to set out from Guizhou Province, marching nearly a thousand miles on foot to reach Changsha, the provincial capital of Hunan.

From there, they transferred to trains, advancing toward Shanghai along the Yuehan, Pinghan, Longhai, Jinpu, and Jinghu railways.

Clinging to the simple notion of defending their homes and country, they had spent some forty long days traversing a grueling journey of several thousand miles, finally arriving at the Magic City.

At this moment, in the open ground outside the station, they stood or sat in groups, gazing with expectant yet bewildered expressions at a place utterly unlike their hometowns.

I must admit one thing: compared to the elite Central Army troops they had seen, these men presented a truly pathetic and impoverished appearance.

The Sichuan soldiers were generally short in stature and somewhat frail.

On their heads, they wore large conical straw hats. Their uniforms were old, worn, and severely unstandardized; given that it was October in Shanghai, many were still wearing shorts.

Their bare legs were wrapped in leg puttees, and on their feet, they wore straw sandals.

Around the waists of many hung long-stemmed pipes for smoking loose leaf tobacco; amidst the crowd, Hu Biao could even spot such magical sights as birdcages, native Chinese rural dogs, and monkeys.

Compared not only to the Central Army, but even to the 3rd Supplementary Company of the Jiangsu Provincial Security Corps that Hu Biao had originally joined, this attire and appearance fell far short.

The gap in weaponry compared to the Central Army was even more astonishingly vast.

Nothing else needed to be said! Since these Sichuan troops had presumably just disembarked from the trains and were gathering by regiment, their light and heavy equipment had all been piled together in the open spaces, making the situation clear at a glance.

Artillery? A regiment possessed a mere four mortars, the model seemingly being the Type 20 82mm mortar, with a very limited supply of shells.

Machine guns? Heavy machine guns appeared to exist only at the regimental headquarters level, totaling just six pieces.

The number of light machine guns was somewhat higher, though each company had only two or three.

Even basic rifles seemingly could not be supplied on a one-per-man basis; a company of over a hundred men mustered a total of only sixty or seventy rifles altogether.

Furthermore, half of those rifles lacked even a bayonet attached.

Consequently, slung across the backs of many soldiers was a broad saber.

Right! Back on Battlefield No. 7, Hu Biao had fired off hundreds of rounds using a Hanyang-made rifle, making him quite familiar with that type of weapon.

As he looked at these Hanyang-made rifles stacked up in bundles against one another, he had a lingering feeling that something was not quite right.

Only when he drew a bit closer did it dawn on him that these things must be the legendary Sichuan-manufactured Type 79 rifles.

The so-called Type 79 rifle was simply another term for the Hanyang rifle; the Sichuan-manufactured Type 79 referred to those produced at the Chengdu Arsenal in Sichuan Province.

The quality of the steel used failed to meet standards, the machining precision was inadequate, and the craftsmanship was crude.

Consequently, the performance of the entire weapon suffered: its range was short, malfunctions were frequent, and some bullets failed to travel in a straight line once they cleared the muzzle past 200 meters. After firing just a few rounds, the barrel would overheat, rendering the bolt impossible to cycle.

Of course! Although the aforementioned Sichuan army possessed equipment and a military bearing that were wretchedly shabby, Hu Biao and his companions felt not the slightest bit of contempt as they looked upon them; instead, their hearts were filled with an even greater sense of respect.

As modern men, who among them was unaware of the sacrifices made by the Sichuan army during the War of Resistance?

3.5 million men took part successively, participating in twenty-eight major campaigns, suffering 640,000 casualties and leaving 26,000 dead upon the battlefield. Both the number of participating troops and the extent of their sacrifices ranked first nationwide.

Particularly given that they went to war with such inferior equipment, it made one's heart swell with profound reverence.

The only problem was that just as their hearts were brimming with deep respect for these Sichuanese forebears, a massive piece of bad news struck them.

Staff Officer Liu turned back and shouted at them:

"What are you few dilly-dallying for? Hurry up and move! I need to head back as soon as I finish the handover. From now on, you belong to the Sichuan army."

Upon hearing this, Hu Biao and the others let out a synchronized cry of "Ah!"

It was only at this exact moment that they realized the new unit they were about to join was actually the Sichuan army.

Look! It was true that they revered the predecessors of the Sichuan army, but having *themselves* follow the Sichuan army from then on was an entirely different story. After all, according to legend, the Sichuan army had been deeply despised during the early stages of the War of Resistance.

No war zone wanted them, meaning they received virtually no logistical supplies, living an existence that could only be described as arduous.

Therefore, since they were all putting their lives on the line against the little devils on the battlefield, why shouldn't they follow a better-off unit and die a slightly more comfortable death?

Even if elite outfits like the Tax Police Corps, the Training Brigade, or the German-equipped divisions were out of reach, it ought to be one of the Central Army's Tu-Mu faction units, right? If worse came to worst, even the Northeast Army could be considered, because although the Northeast Army fell out of favor, their financial foundation was still somewhat substantial.

So why, of all choices, did it have to be the Sichuan army...