Chapter Forty-Two: The Ambush (Part Three)

But Yang Xiaolin had long anticipated this move. Suddenly, several massive boulders tumbled down at the exit ahead, while the only two Maxim heavy machine guns the bandits possessed were positioned—one at the front, the other at the rear.

After a single charge that left over thirty Russian corpses strewn about, the Russians were forced to retreat. Yang Xiaolin gave them no opportunity for a second assault. He had no intention of dragging out this contest with these men—time was not on his side.

After taking down a Russian soldier with a single shot, Yang Xiaolin shouted at the top of his lungs, “Grenades!”

This time, he was truly going all in. Of the several hundred grenades looted from Ganzi Village, more than eighty remained. At his command, they all arced through the air, raining down upon the Russians.

He did not wait for the explosions. Grabbing the broadsword at his side, he roared, “Brothers! Kill the foreigners!”

In these times, no slogan was more rousing than this one. The Russians still held the advantage in numbers, but they were thrown into utter disarray. When more than eighty grenades exploded simultaneously, the carnage was horrific—blood and flesh were sent flying in all directions.

That was the way with bandits: when their momentum was up, they were unstoppable.

Over two hundred of them, shouting and bellowing, rushed down from both sides. At this point, Yang Xiaolin judged their chances at fifty-fifty. No more than that—either victory or defeat, and everything depended on how soon the Russians’ reinforcements arrived. A guaranteed win, like those fought by Zhang Zuolin, was out of the question.

From the start of the battle until now, it seemed slow in the telling, but only a few minutes had passed. Russians at both the front and rear heard the gunfire, but they lost their chance yet again to save their embattled comrades.

At the camp in front, things were a bit better. They dispatched a squad of twenty to investigate, just setting out from the main gate. But things were different at the mine behind; the guards there were drunk, and when the mine owner heard the gunshots, he merely glanced outside, concluding that the Russian troops had likely found signs of bandit activity and were hunting them down.

The melee was brutal. In such chaos, when the bandits’ morale soared, the so-called military discipline of the Russians offered them no advantage. On the contrary, their alcohol-dulled limbs left them at a severe disadvantage, and their broken formation made organized resistance impossible.

But what cost them most dearly was their contempt for the Chinese. Underestimating the enemy is always paid for in blood. These Russian soldiers had never taken fighting in China seriously. In their past experience, a few artillery blasts would send the Chinese running for their lives, and the bandits would scatter at the first sign of overwhelming force.

They were not prepared for close combat—many hadn’t even brought their bayonets. When the bandits charged with broadswords and spears, their rifles without bayonets were no better than firewood.

Though they outnumbered the attackers, they found themselves on the defensive, often with three or four bandits surrounding a single Russian. And what were the others doing? They were looking for places to hide, or searching for weapons suitable for hand-to-hand combat.

Fifteen minutes into the melee, more than half of the six hundred Russians lay dead or wounded. The survivors, under the direction of their officer, managed to form a small circle, fending off attacks from all sides.

Consolidating had its advantages in defense, but it made them an obvious target. Yang Xiaolin redeployed the heavy machine gun reserved for intercepting reinforcements from the mine, and raked the Russian formation with a barrage of bullets, throwing their ranks into fresh chaos.

After twenty minutes, the squad from the Russian barracks finally reached the edge of the battlefield—only to be driven back in terror by another burst from the second heavy machine gun. And once repulsed, they did not return.

The officers left behind in the barracks did wish to rescue their comrades, but had no clear idea of the situation. Who would dare attack a fully armed six-hundred-man Russian unit?

When the squad reported back that the enemy possessed heavy weapons and seemed to be engaged in hand-to-hand combat, their first thought was Japanese ronin. It couldn’t possibly be the Chinese—who had no heavy firepower, and certainly not the courage for close combat. Their immediate reaction was to strengthen their camp defenses and report to their commander, requesting reinforcements.

As for their comrades outside, they could only hope they would hold out until dawn.

After nearly forty minutes of fighting, only forty men remained from the ranks of the Gulu Mountain bandits, and Tu Yulin’s force had dwindled to seventy or eighty. Yet their spirits remained unbroken, for they saw victory within their grasp.

The Russian officer, with fewer than a hundred men left, formed a final defensive ring. The two sides were so close, the bandits could clearly see the terror on the Russians’ faces.

What a feeling it was—to see even Russians quail, to realize that if you were just willing to fight to the death, they too would tremble before you.

Tu Yulin hacked at a Russian with his broadsword. The Russian, now sober but utterly devoid of courage, raised his rifle to parry the blow.

Tu Yulin laughed heartily as he saw the rifle’s bare muzzle—no bayonet attached. Not bothering with any feints, he put all his strength into the swing. With a loud crack, the blade sheared the rifle in two, and without slowing, crashed down upon the Russian’s head.

Looking down at the corpse at his feet, Tu Yulin felt a surge of satisfaction. “Ha! Weren’t you proud of your guns? Didn’t you think little of our broadswords? Brothers, show them your steel! Let these Russians know our strength!”

He barely needed to say it. At this moment, the bandits’ broadswords and spears were in their element, cutting down the Russians who could only defend but not strike back. The tiny square formation was about to collapse.

The Russian officer, seeing his men fall one after another and the utter silence before and behind, was overcome with despair. In fluent Chinese, he shouted, “Wait! Stop! We surrender!”

Tu Yulin was stunned. He was a bandit; in his past raids, he either left empty-handed or killed everyone. What was he supposed to do when the enemy surrendered? Glancing uncertainly at Yang Xiaolin, he saw Yang twirl his blade and approach, holding it reversed.

Yang wiped the blood from his face, smearing it crimson, and smiled. “No more fighting?”

The officer shook his head. “You have won. You are the victors in this war. I hope you will show the magnanimity of the victorious.”

A faint smile touched Yang Xiaolin’s lips. Why were the Russians always like this? The man from Ganzi Village had said much the same, hoping for humane treatment. But when they dealt with the Chinese, where was this humanity and magnanimity they so desired?

“Rest assured,” Yang replied, “I have always greatly admired Russian magnanimity.”