Chapter Twenty: Evacuating Laojun Temple

August 9, 1938, Laojun Temple.

"Old Zhang, I have to say, it really had to be you. How did you manage to get your hands on such rare items?" Wang Yue stood before the Sanqing Hall. Two brand-new Type 20 82mm mortars were displayed there. These were far more useful than his Hotchkiss five-barrel machine guns—they had greater power, were lighter in weight, and had a similar range. They were a rare highlight among domestically produced weapons.

Forget about those damned Czech light machine guns; those were nothing but a "stupidity tax." The average unit price for imported ones was 1,100 silver dollars, while domestically produced ones cost 700, and they were notoriously picky about ammunition. In contrast, the 1938 production cost for a domestically made Qilali (Chauchat) light machine gun was only a little over 200 in legal tender. Given the current shortage of weapons and tight budgets, everyone knew the right choice, yet the Ordnance Bureau remained obsessed with the Czech model.

"It was no easy task hauling these back from Jiangcheng. It took a lot of effort," Zhang Wanhe said with a smile, though his eyes remained fixed on the mortars, unable to pull away. He was reluctant to let them go; these were brand-new pieces, and he couldn't even remember the last time he’d touched a new mortar.

"The shells are a bit scarce, though—only five hundred, and they’re all high-explosive rounds. The packaging is terrible, too; so crude," Wang Yue noted, eyeing the stack of wooden crates behind them. With their wooden partitions and straw shock-absorption, they looked far inferior to the imported shells he was used to.

"It’s actually quite a lot. If you combine all the 75mm and larger mortar shells in the 129th Division, we wouldn't have five hundred. We never dare to use them unless there’s a major battle," Zhang Wanhe lamented. He wanted to quit, but he couldn't; the arsenal was in desperate need of a stable power source.

"That’s why we must be able to produce our own mortars. If we can't even produce these, we might as well stop fighting." Wang Yue smiled. People often accused the Eighth Route Army of "wandering without fighting," but damn it, how could they fight without ammunition? Were they supposed to just hand their heads to the Japanese?

"We plan to expand the scale of our military production this time, moving beyond just reloading cartridges and making hand grenades, to prepare for a long-term struggle against the Japanese behind enemy lines." Zhang Wanhe nodded in agreement. Even though the Military and Political Department still allocated some supplies, it was merely a drop in the bucket for the Eighth Route Army.

"Old Zhang, I’m curious—why spend so much effort on a steam engine? Why not just strip engines from captured Japanese trucks? Even if the Japanese trucks are a bit worn, they’re light." Wang Yue looked puzzled. While the two Type 20 82mm mortars weren't as valuable as the 110-horsepower steam engine from a torpedo boat, a small marine steam engine didn't have much of a market in northern Shanxi.

"We can't transport large quantities of gasoline across the Yellow River and into the Taihang Mountains. By comparison, the 110-horsepower triple-expansion steam engine provided by your side is a more stable power source, and fuel is easier to obtain." Zhang Wanhe gave a bitter smile. The Eighth Route Army wasn't short on gasoline—they could produce straight-run gasoline themselves—but getting it through the blockade lines into the Taihang Mountains was incredibly difficult. Besides, gasoline was expensive; wouldn't it be better to sell it to fund their operations?

Before the war, a liter of gasoline cost 50 to 70 cents in silver dollars on the market; now it was over a dollar. Even low-octane straight-run gasoline could be used.

"Fine. The steam engine is ready. I also have 1,000 37mm shell casings with primers and 1,000 steel-core bullets for you. Just fill them with black powder and they'll be ready to use. Oh, and take this too." With that, Wang Yue handed a piece of paper to Zhang Wanhe.

"What is this?" Zhang Wanhe was confused. He could read the contents—it was a formula for black powder, though it didn't seem to be the most optimal one.

"I heard Old Li complaining that the 'Border Region-made' munitions weren't powerful enough, so I gave it some thought. Poor casing quality is one thing, but you haven't grasped the difference between black powder for explosives and propellant. What I’ve given you is a formula for an explosive charge. By increasing the sulfur content, you can maximize the explosive force. This is what the major powers used during the Great War." Wang Yue smiled. In truth, the Eighth Route Army would have solved this on their own in a few years, but those few years could have a massive impact on the war.

"Thank you so much!" Zhang Wanhe's eyes lit up. They had been trying to solve the issue of poor explosive power themselves but had no leads. This was an unexpected windfall.

***

"That's nothing. By the way, what’s the status of the Qifeng Town situation?" Wang Yue changed the subject. Laojun Temple was now effectively blockaded by the Japanese; the only way out was through the Eighth Route Army’s controlled areas. He couldn't go to the areas held by the Central Army or the Shanxi-Suiyuan Army—with his few men, they would be wiped out in minutes.

Wang Yue wanted a spot within the Eighth Route Army's base area that was out of the way. After much deliberation, he chose Qifeng Town, deep in the Taihang Mountains. It was remote, difficult to attack, and even harder to defend. The land was barren, the population small, and resources scarce—a place the Eighth Route Army likely wouldn't even covet.

"Although the areas around Qifeng Town are under our influence, we haven't yet developed local organizations there. After discussion, our superiors agreed that your unit can go there to station yourselves." Zhang Wanhe felt a bit guilty saying this; the area wasn't strictly under the Eighth Route Army's control. There were many other armed factions within the base area, so adding Wang Yue's few hundred men wouldn't make much difference.

"That settles it. Don't worry, Old Zhang. As long as my Independent Detachment can survive this, I will certainly deepen our cooperation!" Wang Yue knew exactly what Zhang Wanhe was thinking, but he was also anxious himself, wondering if someone might try to "root out the weeds" along the way.

"Commander Wang, was that machine gun in Old Li’s hands a gift for me?" Zhang Wanhe asked uncertainly. Someone had gifted him a piece of artillery, yet he didn't know about it? Who would believe such a thing? If the 386th Brigade hadn't asked him about it, he might never have known.

"Yes. You sent me a batch of M35 helmets last time, so I thought I’d return the favor with a piece of artillery. I assumed Old Li was just borrowing it, but it’s fine. Consider that one a gift for him, and you can take another one back this time." Wang Yue suppressed a laugh. He had intended to test Old Li, and the man hadn't disappointed—it was classic "Li Yunlong" behavior to keep it to himself.

"Well, that’s very kind of you." Zhang Wanhe said he was embarrassed, but he was overjoyed. Direct-fire artillery—even if the caliber was small—was something the Eighth Route Army lacked. He had heard that Li Yunlong had been wreaking havoc with that gun, making life miserable for the Japanese in Heyuan County. Every time Li Yunlong was cornered, he would just roll out that cannon, fire a few rounds, and break through.

If not for the fact that this gun might involve cooperation between Li Yunlong and allied forces, the commander of the 386th Brigade would have already gone to "congratulate" Li Yunlong on his fortune. Firing ten shells in a single night—what kind of household was he running? Li Yunlong truly didn't know the cost of firewood and rice.

"It’s nothing. It’s just that the shell consumption has been too high lately, otherwise, I’d send you a batch of shells too!" Wang Yue always felt he had plenty of ammunition, but Li Yunlong had burned through 53 shells in a single engagement with the Japanese, including 20 precious high-explosive rounds.

"That’s enough, that’s enough. I brought you another batch of helmets this time as a return gift from the Eighth Route Army. It’s not much, please don’t mind." Zhang Wanhe suddenly felt the batch of helmets he’d brought was meager. The arsenal was short on raw materials, especially high-quality steel. These were all the helmets the 129th Division could scrape together, and they were truly no match for the value of the artillery.

"How did you get your hands on Adrian, MK2, Type 90, and M35 helmets? You really have quite a collection." Wang Yue looked at the list Zhang Wanhe handed him and marvelled. 82 Adrian helmets, 47 MK2s, 178 Type 90s, and 27 M35s. He wondered how Zhang Wanhe had deduced he liked helmets.

"Commander Wang, some units of the Northeast Army were equipped with Adrian helmets." Zhang Wanhe didn't know what to say. As a former high-ranking officer in the Northeast Army, how could he not know about their equipment?

It should be noted that while the Northeast Army’s procurement departments were unreliable, they were still better than the spendthrifts at the Ordnance Bureau. At the very least, they had chosen war-surplus Adrian helmets instead of expensive new models. Across so many troops, saving a few dollars per soldier amounted to a significant sum.

"It's different, truly different. The quantity isn't that large, is it?" Wang Yue found a clue in his predecessor's memories. His father had been the one behind it—buying 50,000 surplus helmets at one silver dollar apiece. Unfortunately, there were spendthrifts who didn't like "cheap goods," otherwise, they would have bought at least 500,000.

"According to our tests, the quality of the Adrian helmet is quite good. It’s far better than the Japanese Type 90 and only slightly worse than the M35." Zhang Wanhe replied. Even though the Eighth Route Army was poor, they were quite studious in this regard.

"There's no comparison. The Type 90 only weighs 1 kilogram, while the Adrian weighs 1.4 kilograms. With the difference in steel quality, the performance difference is worlds apart." Wang Yue held a grudge against the Type 90; in the past few years, three of his captive soldiers wearing Type 90s had been headshot from long range, while the M35 had only left the wearers stunned.

"Well, they’re perfect for forging broadswords anyway." Zhang Wanhe thought to himself that it pained him to give away so many helmets, but even the steel from the Japanese Type 90s couldn't be refined into high-quality steel domestically.

"I have excellent standard-issue Yanling sabers, refined pieces from the late Qing Dynasty. The steel quality is absolutely incomparable to current domestic goods." Wang Yue’s mouth twitched. Who would have thought that current steel production was even worse than it had been forty years ago? As for the quality, it was even worse. That so-called "Golden Decade" was nothing but the self-indulgence of compradors.

"The kind used by the Black Cloud Fortress?" Zhang Wanhe suddenly recalled a rumor that the bandits at Black Cloud Fortress had recently received government support, gaining not only light and heavy machine guns but even standard-issue steel sabers for their low-level thugs.

"That's the one. Brand-new Imperial Household Department standard-issue Yanling sabers. I'll give you 150 of them; they’re excellent for hand-to-hand combat." Wang Yue was already imagining how many heads these blades could sever. He had tested them himself—they were incredibly smooth. Besides, it was all for killing the Japanese; it didn't matter if it was forty years ago or forty years later.

In high spirits, Wang Yue also gifted Zhang Wanhe 12 Nambu Type 14 pistols and 100 7.63mm "broomhandle" pistols. If Zhang Wanhe could have carried more, Wang Yue would have given even more. Wang Yue felt conflicted—he was worried about being purged, yet he desperately wanted to support the Eighth Route Army with everything he had.

That night, the Independent Detachment traveled light and retreated secretly from Laojun Temple, heading toward Qifeng Town deep in the Taihang Mountains. By the time the Japanese got wind of the news, Wang Yue was already sitting in the Qifeng Town government office, contemplating how to solve his predicament.

Yes, a predicament. Qifeng Town officially covered 123 square kilometers, but the registered population was only 5,000, and the arable land was a mere 12,000 mu. With such little land and so few people, even on the plains, one would barely scrape by—let alone in the mountains.

Wang Yue's first thought was to shake down the local tyrannical landlords, but he soon learned that the wealthiest landlord in town owned only 52 mu, and he had a family of 18 to feed. They worked hard, hired no laborers, and had no tenants. Calling them "landlords" was a stretch, and they were certainly no tyrants.

As for merchants, there were essentially none. The town center had only one old peddler and a mediocre blacksmith. There wasn't even a restaurant, though a few farmers sold homemade pickles and black bean buns. Those buns were so dense they could probably knock a person out, and eating them was guaranteed to cause digestive distress.

As for transportation, the town consisted of eight villages, but it took half a day to travel from the center to the nearest village. Some villages didn't even have carriage roads. Even the center of Qifeng Village only had one narrow road leading 42 kilometers to Yangquan City, and it was entirely mountain road. The Japanese had occupied Yangquan for quite some time, yet they had never once ventured this way—not even the puppet troops had shown their faces.

If not for the annual allocation of 1,000 catties of millet from the provincial government, the mayor and his two subordinates probably would have run off long ago. As for taxes—well, not a single cent reached the town office, because this tiny, pathetic Qifeng Town was infested with three different bands of bandits. With them around, how could the town office possibly collect taxes?