Chapter 165: Grassland Plan

Huang Xiong marched as the 8th Squad Leader of the 3rd Company, and in all his years of soldiering, he had never witnessed such extravagance on campaign. The column hugged the coastline while the Navy's Fubo cruised parallel offshore, matching their pace exactly. At every bivouac, supply ships ran themselves up onto the beach with practiced efficiency, and wheeled field kitchens rolled down their wide gangplanks like chariots of plenty.

The kitchens themselves were marvels—cleverly constructed from thin iron plates, complete with built-in stoves and chimneys. Though originally designed to be horse-drawn, they traveled by ship for this operation. The soldiers gathered firewood, fires were lit, and crates of provisions came streaming off the vessels in an endless procession.

What astonished Huang Xiong most was the water. It was pumped from a dedicated transport ship—an almost obscene luxury. He had come to understand that the Australians "processed" everything, drinking water included. They never touched raw water from rivers or wells, and they strictly forbade their subordinates from doing so as well.

For Ma Qianzhu, who had organized the logistics, this arrangement was simply practical. The transmigrators lacked bleaching powder for field purification, and a coastal march through Lingao's notoriously water-scarce western region would have meant difficult freshwater supply. Ship transport was safe, convenient, and saved the soldiers precious time and energy.

The crates that came ashore didn't contain rice or flour. Instead, they held paper-wrapped blocks marked with Arabic numerals and strange words: "Grassland-1," "Grassland-2," and so on. Each wrapper bore a different-colored band. Huang Xiong watched with growing curiosity as the cooks unwrapped them, revealing grayish or brownish blocks that looked decidedly unappetizing. But the moment boiling water hit them, a strange and wonderful fragrance rose from the pots. The appearance remained bizarre, yet the aroma set mouths watering—especially for soldiers who had been marching all day under heavy packs.

"What's this?" Huang Xiong asked the cook stirring the nearest pot.

"Grassland-1 and Grassland-2."

"But what is it?"

"No idea." The cook sniffed the rising steam appreciatively. "Chief Ma got it directly from the Farm. Smells incredible, though. Couldn't tell you the ingredients."

"Flour paste?" one Lingao local complained. "I can't eat wheat."

"Flour paste? Dream on. It's probably sweet potato powder."

"Can't be," Huang Xiong said. "We eat white rice on regular days—you think they'd put us on potatoes for a campaign? Nobody does that." He knew from long experience that soldiers were normally treated like beggars, but combat required proper feeding.

"Chow's ready! Chow's ready!" The cook banged his ladle against the pot's rim, the metallic clanging cutting through the evening air.

The soldiers lined up by unit number—1st Platoon 1st Squad at the front, proceeding down through each squad until the 3rd Platoon 9th Squad brought up the rear. The New Army officers demonstrated their commitment to equality by queuing alongside the soldiers, a practice that had begun during training and now felt entirely natural. Not that it came without complaint. Daily white rice with salted fish was a luxury for enlisted men, but for officers accustomed to better, the monotony wore thin. A few had tried sneaking off to the cafeteria for supplements. Ma Qianzhu discovered this and put a swift end to it, ordering all officers to eat with the soldiers and leading by personal example.

After persevering for several days, Ma Qianzhu discovered that unlike the five-kilometer morning runs—which grew easier with persistence—the food situation only worsened with time. He finally relented, decreeing that officers would receive evening supplements. For this expedition, each officer's pack contained 125 grams of canned luncheon meat, a privilege that made every other transmigrator green with envy.

Huang Xiong collected his portion of the paste, studied it for a moment, then closed his eyes and spooned it in. The richness of flavor nearly overwhelmed him. Such deliciousness existed in this world! He wolfed down everything and rushed to check for leftovers. A mob had already surrounded the pot, everyone thrusting out their bowls and clamoring for more.

The cook—facing such enthusiasm for the first time—couldn't decide who deserved the remaining scrapings. Finally, he added water and distributed it as soup.

Nearby, Dongmen Chuiyu nodded with satisfaction and scribbled in his notebook: "Grassland-1 and Grassland-2: highly satisfactory."

After the meal, the Medical Team's female nurses came ashore carrying boxes marked with red crosses, asking after pains and discomfort. Immediately, a suspicious number of soldiers reported foot pain or stomach aches.

Tian Liang spotted Guo Fu among the nurses and promptly claimed a stomach complaint himself. When the reports of mass stomach distress reached Dr. He—nicknamed "River Horse"—still aboard the ship, terror gripped him. Mass stomach aches after eating? Food poisoning? Even widespread diarrhea was unacceptable. A military demonstration that left a trail of suffering bowels in its wake would be a catastrophic embarrassment. He personally landed with his medicine kit.

"Your stomach's perfectly fine," Dr. He declared, slapping Tian Liang's belly with enough force to make it genuinely hurt.

The stomach farce ended quickly after that. The column resumed its march. Field kitchens were loaded back onto the ships while soldiers packed up everything—including burying their feces and garbage. Hygiene discipline was never neglected.

These two hundred-odd men pressed forward along barren roads toward Baitu beneath a clear sky, their advance punctuated by the rhythmic beat of drums. Occasionally they passed farmers and merchants. Sometimes they passed villages. Seeing orderly troops march by, people paused to watch—but nobody fled. The transmigrators' reputation for righteousness had clearly spread throughout the county.

At roadside villages, local gentry and elders came forward seeking goodwill, sending representatives bearing tea, grain, chickens, and pork to "entertain the troops." Xi Yazhou always spoke with them courteously, then dismissed the sweating elders—but accepted nothing. Huang Xiong found this incomprehensible. He understood that disciplined armies didn't loot or disturb civilians, but refusing gifts that were freely offered?

He mentioned his confusion to Old Tiger, who laughed. "Meat? Go ask the Medical Team if they'd accept it."

"Why not?" Huang Xiong wondered aloud. Did the Australians eat some special kind of meat?

"You're still new. You'll understand eventually."

Near dusk, the column had covered two-thirds of the total distance. Tomorrow would bring mountain terrain. According to the maps, Baitu lay under fifteen kilometers away in a straight line. Xi Yazhou called a halt and ordered them to make camp, preparing for the next day's assault.

"Set up camp! Cadets, supervise!" he commanded.

The Military-Political School cadets had been distributed among the platoons for observation, studying how the transmigrator officers commanded and managed their men. Headquarters had its own cadets as well. The moment the order was given, they sprang into action.

Bivouac procedures had been drilled countless times. Officers, cadets, and soldiers all knew their responsibilities without prompting. Once the site was selected, platoons organized themselves. Under cadet coordination, they divided into work sectors and assigned tasks according to regulations: digging sinusoidal trenches, piling excess soil into protective berms, laying barbed wire atop the earthworks, and erecting wooden corner towers. All grass and shrubs within a hundred meters were cleared.

Defense came first at every bivouac—an ancient Roman principle that the transmigrators had adopted even with their superior technology and training.

Soldiers cut poles from nearby trees. Two shelter-halves tied together formed a two-man tent. The camp was organized by platoon, with drainage ditches and movement paths running between zones. An emergency plan pre-assigned each platoon's assembly positions. Everything was orderly and efficient.

Watching fifteen- and sixteen-year-old cadets manage affairs with such competence filled Huang Xiong with quiet astonishment. He could do all this himself, but only because of years of hard-earned military experience. These cadets had spent barely two months with the bald people. They were still somewhat rough around the edges, true—but given time and combat experience, they would become qualified officers.

He sidled up to one of the young cadets. "Where did you learn all this?" he asked quietly.

"The Chiefs taught us." The cadet pulled a worn book from his satchel. "Also from this—Infantry Regulations."

"Just from reading?"

"The Chiefs taught us directly from this book. Everything's in here—digging trenches, setting up camp, march formations, all of it." The cadet spoke of the regulations with something approaching reverence, claiming it contained everything a soldier needed to know.

Just from a military manual! Huang Xiong thought skeptically. Wasn't this simply fighting battles on paper, like the legendary Zhao Kuo from the old tales? He recalled that the Australians did seem to love their books. Though soldiers weren't permitted inside headquarters, he had stolen glances through the doorway. The interior was filled with books and paper scrolls—looking for all the world like a scholar's study rather than a military command post.

Were the Australians truly planning to fight their wars from books? The idea seemed utterly unbelievable.

(End of Chapter)