The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 913 The Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's "Luo the Second Generation" VS The American Barack's "Patton the Third Generation"

At dawn on April 2, 1883, on a gentle slope known as "Buffalo Hill," five kilometers east of Bellevue-Weldburg, Luo Xinzhong stood behind a makeshift sandbag fortification, his overcoat wrapped tightly around him. His knuckles were white from strain, and his binoculars reflected the billowing dust rising from Highway 65. The dull thud of treads on asphalt in the distance sounded like the drums of death, pounding against his heart.

"Brigade Commander, Deputy Brigade Commander Nanmu called, asking if reinforcements are needed." Before the staff officer could finish speaking, Luo Xinzhong rudely interrupted him: "Reinforcements what! Tell that sycophant he only has one day to complete the ring-shaped fortifications of Bellevue-Weldburg. I can only buy him 24 hours at most!" His voice was weak, and he immediately grabbed Daidouji Yumi beside him, "Has the telegram been sent? What did my father say? When will the reinforcements from Tianjing arrive?"

Yumi, however, was full of confidence, her tone as calm as chanting: "The Angel King has contacted the Heavenly Brother through the Mirror of Heaven. The Heavenly Father, the Heavenly Brother, the Heavenly King, Amaterasu, and the Eastern King are all protecting this battle. Captain, please rest assured, those white devils' tanks are nothing but metal coffins."

"Coffin my ass!" Luo Xinzhong pointed at the thirty-odd black dots getting closer and closer at the end of the road, the Stars and Stripes on the roof of the car particularly glaring in the morning light. His legs trembled uncontrollably, and he was already filled with remorse: Why did I have to play the hero! I should have let that sycophant Nanmu take the fall!

The distant roar grew closer, and Luo Xinzhong forced himself to calm down. He looked around: on Buffalo Hill, six anti-tank gun positions were arranged in a fan shape, the slender barrels of 45mm rapid-fire guns appearing and disappearing in the grass; in the foxholes, soldiers of the Osaka 4th Regiment gripped their rifles tightly, some even filling sake bottles with kerosene to make Molotov cocktails. These "merchant soldiers" from Osaka and the surrounding area had faces filled with tension and fear.

"Pass down the order," Luo Xinzhong took a deep breath, "wait until the tanks are within 500 meters before firing. The Molotov cocktail team will lie in ambush behind the anti-tank ditch and wait until the anti-tank guns have finished firing before moving in." His voice trembled slightly, but he managed to deliver the order completely.

Yumi nodded slightly and turned to relay the order. Luo Xinzhong watched her retreating figure, suddenly recalling the words of his instructor from the Tianjing Military Academy before his departure: "Remember, the most terrifying thing on the battlefield is not the enemy's artillery fire, but the fear in your own heart." He shook his head with a wry smile; now he finally understood the meaning of those words.

Through the binoculars, the US Eastern Army tanks were clearly visible. Those steel behemoths spewed black smoke; their 25mm riveted armor looked exceptionally sturdy, and the water-cooled machine guns mounted on their turrets were chilling. A 37mm rapid-fire cannon at the front of the tanks exuded an even more dangerous aura. Luo Xinzhong swallowed hard and began to pray silently to "Heavenly Father, Holy Mother, Heavenly Brother, Heavenly King, Holy Spirit, and Fourth Uncle."

Please try your best to protect him! Otherwise he will die.
"Prepare for battle!" After finishing his prayer, Luo Xinzhong roared, his voice echoing across the battlefield. At this moment, he was no longer the pampered "second-generation prince," but a battlefield commander about to face a life-or-death test.

On Route 65, Major General George Smith Patton rode his Virginia Thoroughbred, cigar ash fluttering down onto his crisp military trousers—he was the father of the historically renowned General Patton, "Old Patton," and above him were "Old Patton" and "Old Patton," all figures capable of writing letters of recommendation to West Point—his family were "old revolutionaries" of the Revolutionary War! They were longtime friends with the Thomas Jefferson family, considered a marginal member of the "Virginia Dynasty." Therefore, today's battle was essentially Luo Xinzhong, this "second-generation king," versus the third-generation ancestor of the American "Patton family"!
Old Patton raised his binoculars and saw that Highway 65 was completely blocked by dozens of concrete cones. A contemptuous sneer crept onto his lips.

"Ha! Do these yellow-skinned monkeys think this is some kind of sandcastle building game? How could this piece of junk possibly stop American tanks?" He scoffed, spitting out his cigarette butt, and ordered his staff officer beside him, "Pass the order! Tanks, circle around the grass on both sides! Cavalry regiment, protect the flanks! Let these Asians see what modern warfare is all about!"

The order was swiftly relayed through flag signals and messengers. More than thirty MK.1 steam tanks roared deafeningly as they turned in unison toward the wasteland on either side of the road. These 12-ton steel behemoths formed a wedge formation, their 25mm riveted armor gleaming coldly in the morning light, and the Maxim machine guns mounted on their turrets were already loaded.

What Patton didn't know was that the 4th Brigade's current anti-tank tactics—Dragon Fangs, mines, and various anti-tank weapons—could not only stop modern American tanks, but also American and German main battle tanks more than a century from now.
"Dad, do you even know how to fight tanks? Have you ever seen such powerful tanks?" On Bison Hill, Luo Xinzhong stared intently at the approaching tank formation, his palms sweating profusely.

Such a huge iron tank looks really tough to take down! Luo Yaoguo, a Taiping Army leader, probably had never seen a tank in his life, let alone fought one—where was he supposed to find one? Through his precious Heavenly Mirror?

Suddenly, the lead MK.1 tank ran over what appeared to be an ordinary patch of grass. "Boom!" A muffled thud, and the left track snapped off! The tank veered sharply, sinking heavily into the blasted crater. High-pressure steam hissed from the damaged valves, white mist instantly enveloping the entire vehicle, making it look from a distance like a dying beast giving its final breath. The other tanks, noticing the mine ahead, braked and dared not advance.

Luo Xinzhong was dumbfounded—the tank was broken? The newly bought tank was broken just like that? And the other tanks dared not advance—weren't they just sitting ducks for anti-tank guns?
The old man's method really works!

"Minefield? Engineers, clear the mines!" Patton remained very calm—it was just a minefield; how could ordinary mines possibly stop advanced American tanks?
A team of mounted engineers immediately rushed to the explosion site, attempting to clear a safe passage for the following tanks.

At this very moment, on the anti-tank gun position at Bison Hill, Yamamotoji Ichiro had his eyes slightly closed, holding prayer beads, and chanting: "Namo Myoho Renge Kyo, no, it is the teaching of the Emperor God that when we meet on a narrow path, the brave shall prevail." This strange mixed prayer made the surrounding gunners look at each other in bewilderment, but no one dared to raise any objections.

"Distance 480 meters. Loading armor-piercing rounds. Parameters set!" the observer shouted. Yamamoto-ji suddenly opened his eyes and yelled, "Fire!"

Six 45mm rapid-fire cannons shuddered simultaneously, their muzzle flashes tracing six dazzling trails in the air. The sounds of gunfire, like the knocking of death, echoed as armor-piercing shells tore through the air at 680 meters per second, hurtling towards the crippled American tank in the minefield.

The first salvo yielded astonishing results. A 45mm armor-piercing shell precisely struck the riveted armor seam of an MK.1 tank, penetrating it like a hot knife through butter and exploding inside the boiler compartment. The earth-shattering explosion blew the entire turret ten meters into the air, and cast iron fragments mixed with the crew's remains rained down on the surrounding wasteland.

Another 45mm armor-piercing round hit the track, knocking the track and a road wheel off together, causing the tank to tilt and become limping!

Two out of six tanks hit in the first round! Plus one that hit a mine, three of the Americans' advanced tanks were destroyed or damaged in one go. What a resounding victory!
"Well done!" Luo Xinzhong leaped up from the trench, pumping his fist excitedly. He turned to the messenger and roared, "Fourth Regiment, charge! Amaterasu bless!" This slogan, originally shouted by Osaka merchants when they were begging for money, had now become the battle cry.

More than a thousand Osaka soldiers leaped out of their foxholes like tigers released from their cages. These Japanese soldiers, jokingly referred to as "merchant soldiers," displayed astonishing fighting prowess. Some carried bamboo poles bundled with five hand grenades, others wielded Molotov cocktails made from repurposed sake bottles, and still others carried rifles with bayonets fixed—they charged frantically at the smoking steel wreckage like they were rushing to buy discounted goods at a market.

At the same time, six Type 31 water-cooled machine guns, hidden in the grass, began to roar. These Maxim-like weapons spat fire, and a hail of bullets swept towards the American cavalry trying to cover the tanks. Amidst the chaos, a horse without its rider dragged its disemboweled master away, leaving a gruesome trail of blood on the grass.

Through his binoculars, Luo Xinzhong saw a slender Osaka soldier nimbly climb onto the turret of a tank that had just been crippled by a second volley of anti-tank fire. He opened the hatch and stuffed a grenade inside. But before he could jump down, a volley of machine gun fire from a tank on the side riddled him with bullets. The young soldier's body hung on the turret, blood streaming down the armor plates, but he clutched the grenade he hadn't managed to throw until his last breath.

The two 45mm guns also targeted the tank that was still fighting, immediately adjusted their angles, and opened fire simultaneously. The first shell hit the tank's gun shield and bounced off, but the second shell accurately hit the observation window, blowing half of the commander's body out of the tank, and the Stars and Stripes was torn to shreds by the shockwave.

After three rounds of shelling, General Patton lost five of his "newly purchased tanks"—no, six—and then another tank's "head" flew into the air!
Patton, witnessing this from the rear, was so dark his face could drip water. However, he wasn't completely out of his mind—he was a capable "third-generation scion," so General Patton suppressed his anger and ordered: "Retreat! Order our tanks to retreat! Withdraw and reorganize the attack! Also, have the artillery fire to cover our retreat! Bombard those yellow-skinned monkeys!"

(End of this chapter)