Chapter 1705 - Bayonet Training
The men of the 10th Battalion, packs piled high on their backs, shuffled slowly in line as they disembarked. The headquarters troops waited patiently on deck in orderly squad formations.
Under the white sun, a morning-mist-like haze hung over the waters of Saint Girl Bay. The patrol steamships shuttling in the distance were indistinct—only faint gray-white shapes moving about. The thrum of their engines drifted over on the cool, biting wind.
Temporary barracks had been set up near Central Pier. Troops arriving in Hong Kong, along with northbound cadres from the Qiongya Detachment, were quartered here temporarily, awaiting the order to move out.
After the 10th Battalion completed its assembly and roll call at the pier, the entire battalion marched to the bivouac area.
Hong Kong had few inhabitants—only a small number of farmers and fishermen living under military-style management at agricultural reclamation outposts. Apart from them, there were only soldiers and the "military laborers" who served the armed forces.
These military laborers not only handled cargo loading and unloading but also worked in the island's Joint Logistics factories. Taking advantage of Hong Kong's role as a transshipment hub, they imported raw materials from outside to produce food, clothing, vehicles, and ships for the military. It was the Joint Logistics Command's largest supply point in the south.
Little commercial atmosphere existed here. Apart from the shops and warehouses in the commercial port district, everywhere else was under "martial law." Everyone walking the streets wore some kind of uniform.
Being here, one could feel the pre-battle tension even more acutely.
After the 10th Battalion had settled into its camp, the entire battalion—excepting those too seasick—assembled on the drill ground for afternoon exercises.
Already on the drill ground was the 1st Infantry Battalion, which had arrived earlier. This battalion's core had grown from the Ma'ao Security Regiment, the Yuan Council's earliest armed force. Its history was long, and it had participated in a series of major campaigns including the First and Second Counter-Encirclement Wars. Its eagle banner bore more honor ribbons than any other. It was the Yuan Council's bedrock unit. The battalions established after it had all been seeded with officers and cadres drawn from the 1st Battalion. Having long guarded Lingao, the 1st was virtually "the Yuan Council's Guard"—and so the pride of every man in the battalion ran high, and their tactical proficiency was the best of all battalions.
"The bayonet is a good fellow; the bullet is a fool," the drill instructor was saying as he addressed the troops before exercises began. "Shooting, grenades, bayonet fighting, demolition, and field fortification—these are the five basic skills of every infantryman. They are necessities of the battlefield and requirements for every man in the Fubo Army, officer or soldier alike. It's not enough just to know them—you must master them."
Two instructors wearing specialized protective headgear were using the time before boarding to demonstrate and explain bayonet-combat techniques, narrating as they demonstrated.
Two armies facing off, soldier against soldier, man against man in direct confrontation—this could not be simulated on paper. When actually facing a bayonet, most people's legs would turn to jelly. Tian Liang still remembered one training session when a transmigrator officer picked up an SKS with fixed bayonet and went down the line, thrusting it at each man in turn. Crack—the blue-white gleam of the cruciform spike would stop right before their eyes as he demanded to know their feelings.
Tian Liang clearly remembered his reaction: violently dizzy, limbs weak, a chill running down his spine, barely able to hold his bladder, feeling completely drained in an instant—sweat breaking out all over his body in a single rush. One by one the officer went, asking each man's reaction—every response was the same. Some wet themselves on the spot with fright; others fainted outright.
After a brief lecture, the two battalions cleared a space in the middle and began pitting their top bayonet fighters against each other in sparring practice.
Bayonet sparring meant two soldiers fighting face-to-face. Both wore special protective gear and face guards of iron mesh that hid their features. Each wielded a training rifle—like knights clad head to toe in armor—an imposing sight.
The rule: whoever first scored a thrust to the opponent's chest won.
The sparring was fierce—thrust against thrust, lunging and leaping, battle cries like thunder. When experts took the field, the bout often lasted only seconds—a dozen at most—then, suddenly, one would land the first blow. A clean hit, the instructor called "Stop!" and the opponent was finished. The intense clash would halt abruptly, victory and defeat clear. As one instructor said, that was how it was on the battlefield—hard against hard, whoever was harder put one thrust through the other—no hesitation.
A thousand pairs of eyes around the perimeter fixed on the comrades dueling in the ring. Sometimes the silence was so complete you could hear a pin drop—only the heavy breathing of the fighters and the thwack-thwack of wooden rifles colliding. Then suddenly a cheer would erupt, applause like thunder, as men roared themselves hoarse in support of their battalion. Every company prized unity and honor; no one could afford to lose face here, lest they be mocked about it forever.
The 10th Battalion was newly formed. Though it had veterans, most were still new recruits. Compared to the 1st Battalion, which had a higher proportion of veterans, they looked outclassed. Before a full meal's time had passed, the 1st began to dominate, winning three bouts in a row. The victors clapped and cheered with redoubled enthusiasm, and taunts began to drift across: "10th Battalion softies—go home and practice!"
The 10th's officers couldn't sit still. Several caps huddled together for a whispered conference. Then Lin Fu called out loudly: "First Company Commander Huang Xiong—you're up!"
The 1st Battalion stirred. First Company was the grenadier company—the battalion's elite. Anyone commanding that company was a senior officer marked for promotion. Moreover, Company Commander Huang Xiong had the longest seniority of any company commander in the entire army—he had followed the dragon since the Yuan Council's founding—and had been a bazong in the Jizhou garrison, boasting that his saber and spear work had been passed down in his family since childhood. He often showed off his moves in front of everyone.
Yu Zhiqian of the 1st Battalion naturally objected. He glanced at one of the instructors—fair-skinned and solidly built—and yelled at Lin Fu: "Bullying greenhorns who've barely held a rifle for a few months! Battalion Commander Lin, how about you come up yourself?"
"Knowing we'd beat anybody in the 10th, you want a few more months to train and get used to losing?"
"No! After today, we won't have time to waste..."
The officers of both battalions, afraid of seeming timid in front of their men, refused to back down and fell to bickering on the sidelines.
The stout instructor started, rubbed his chin, and drew a detached bayonet. He surveyed everyone and said: "Hurry it up. Let's continue."
"You brats—" the instructor raised the bayonet high—"what is our most loyal and dependable companion?"
"The bayonet!"
"You bunch of sissies—I can't hear you!"
"What is our most loyal and dependable companion?"
"The bayonet—" a roar like a tidal wave.
"What can face an enemy charging straight at you without fear?"
"The bayonet!"
"What proves courage and makes the enemy's heart freeze at the critical moment?"
"The bayonet!"
Soon the two battalions reached agreement: each would send one representative, seniority no bar, best-of-three. Naturally, the 10th's champion was First Company Commander Huang Xiong, their bayonet expert.
Yu Zhiqian called out in a deep voice: "Fu Fu—step forward!"
Fu Fu wasn't tall—stocky and square-headed—but he had long since outgrown the frail look he'd had when he joined the Security Regiment. Armored and masked, he was ready. This man who had once aspired only to make lieutenant was now a first lieutenant and company executive officer.
The match began at once; sparring needed no speeches.
The stout instructor commanded: "Begin!" The bayonet bout commenced.
Both men lunged forward, rifles thrust out, closing the gap with rapid shuffling steps. When they were about two meters apart— clack!—the two wooden rifles crossed in an instant. And so they fought.
They advanced and retreated across the field—sometimes the tall Huang Xiong advancing, the shorter Fu Fu retreating; sometimes the short man advancing, the tall one retreating; or else both pivoted around the point where their rifles crossed, moving clockwise or counter-clockwise, their steps now fast, now slow. Neither spoke—no war cries, no actual lunges—and the drill ground fell so silent it made one's heart race. Under the glaring sun, the distant steamship whistles faded, and all you could see was the two of them locked in combat. All you could hear was the constant, violent clash of wooden rifles—thwack, thwack—a sound none of them had ever heard before: dull and abrupt. The sound made one's heart tremble—they worried the wooden rifles might break.
This was the testing phase; experts often opened this way.
"Whoa...!" All at once the crowd erupted in massive applause. Amid the clapping, the stout instructor shouted "Stop!" Instantly Fu Fu recovered his stance to attention. Huang Xiong seemed to have been shoved hard—he staggered backward several steps, braced with his rear leg to stop, still gripping his rifle. After barely a pause, he snapped to attention.
Some onlookers hadn't seen clearly. They shook their heads and asked the men beside them.
A moment later the instructor commanded: "Begin!" Both thrust their rifles forward and advanced rapidly—again locking wooden rifles, the second round underway. No one dared let their attention wander; all eyes stayed glued to the pair.
Now Huang Xiong seemed to extend his arms deliberately—with his long reach, his thrust had greater range, his rifle tip wavering right before Fu Fu's face. Fu Fu deliberately crouched lower, thrusting beneath the tall man's waist—a classic "low dig." Huang Xiong had a counter: whenever Fu Fu edged closer or tried to strike, Huang Xiong used his height to smash downward with his rifle, beating the shorter man's weapon down so he couldn't raise it or close the distance—they called this "press-beat-thrust." Suddenly Huang Xiong lunged with a big step and thrust. Fu Fu hopped backward three times to evade the blow. Then both resumed their advancing, retreating, side-stepping, and mutual thrusting—for a moment the drill ground rang with battle cries, though neither had scored a hit. You could hear them panting heavily.
Clearly Huang Xiong was looking for an opening to flash in close. In the standoff, Fu Fu suddenly executed a left parry-thrust—but there was no loud clash of wooden rifles. All you heard was Huang Xiong's fierce "Kill!" overlapping with a dull, powerful thump!—the sound of a rifle tip striking a chest guard. The instructor called "Stop!" Fu Fu stumbled backward several steps, nearly sitting down. By then Huang Xiong had already recovered his rifle and stood at attention facing the instructor.
Another wave of tremendous applause.
"What happened?" "What happened?" Whispers ran through the ranks; many looked equally baffled.
(End of Chapter)