Chapter 127: Bayonet Tactics and Playing Dead Tactics

The two squads now under Xu Wenshan’s command were a far cry from the peasant force he had initially assembled. Just as a fine blade must be tempered in blood, so too must fine soldiers. Having survived two battles where they triumphed against superior numbers, these soldiers now possessed the bearing of regular troops.

Xu Wenshan even felt that in certain respects, his force surpassed the armies of the current feudal states—that respect being "discipline." In this era, armies prioritized "loyalty" first and "bravery" second. However, he believed that while fighting required bravery, warfare was primarily a matter of discipline. Under this philosophy, one could hardly call his troops brave in the traditional sense, but their adherence to discipline was beyond the reach of any other force.

General Yue Fei once famously defined bravery: "To reach the battlefield, to hold one's spear, and to have the will to fight—that is bravery." Humans are not machines; it is rare for an average soldier to perform at even a fraction of their potential once in battle, which is why feudal armies demanded such high levels of courage. Bravery ensures a soldier charges forward, and loyalty ensures they charge in the right direction. General Yue was the perfect soldier of the feudal era, though tragically, he became the most poignant sacrifice of that very system.

The experience of another great general, Qi Jiguang, is even more thought-provoking. When he first led regular troops against the Japanese pirates, his men would often collapse in disarray before even engaging the enemy. It was only after witnessing the Yiwu villagers fighting in brawls and marveling at their spirit that he incorporated them into his main force, eventually forging a formidable army.

The difference between Xu Wenshan’s troops and others lay here: regardless of origin or individual temperament, once a man joined the ranks, he would instinctively obey orders and become a part of the collective. Whether one was brave or could barely hold a spear mattered little; once placed in a phalanx, one had to be brave, and one had to hold that spear. This was the power of discipline.

Yet, this was not enough for Xu Wenshan to dare engage the armies beyond the mountains. Upon returning to the village, he reorganized his troops. Because the drawbacks of long spears were too prominent, he abandoned their use. Now, his soldiers carried short staves, with a long, multi-edged spearhead concealed on their persons, which could be attached to the stave at a moment’s notice to function as a short pike.

Indeed, this was a copy—a copy of the bayonet. Xu Wenshan knew he had to produce firearms, but he lacked saltpeter. Furthermore, given the current industrial state of Luhe Valley, it would take the entire village nearly a hundred days to forge a single gun barrel. Even if they couldn't make the barrels, it didn't matter; their bayonets were advanced. A bayonet was not merely a weapon of last resort when a rifleman was cornered; it was powerful. In a melee between a hundred men with broadswords and a hundred with bayonets, those with broadswords would undoubtedly lose.

Xu Wenshan personally wrote a manual titled *Techniques of the Military Bayonet* and had his troops study it daily. The content of this manual was, naturally, also a copy—plagiarized from the People’s Liberation Army’s bayonet manual. The bayonet techniques of the "Rabbits" (a nickname for the PLA) were learned from the Russians and the Japanese; the Russians had forged theirs in European wars against great powers, and the Japanese had learned theirs during the Meiji Restoration. The techniques of the great powers were refined through two hundred years of colonial warfare and the meat-grinder of two world wars, built upon countless lives. The "Rabbits," coming from behind, had absorbed the essence of all schools and, combined with their own local experience, created a unique system. *The PLA Bayonet Manual* was the ultimate killing art forged in a sea of blood, incomparable to any civilian martial art. In short: the Chinese bayonet technique is the best in the world!

"There are few enemies—five outside the house and no more than fifteen inside," Xu Wenshan told Lei Laohu and Li Dazhuang. "They aren't wearing armor, so there's no need to fix bayonets. The first squad will assault the front gate, and the second squad will flank from behind the courtyard!"

Lei Laohu replied, "But there is no gate behind the courtyard."

"Then knock the wall down!"

"Yes!"

The clerk standing nearby trembled, saying, "Young Master, let’s talk this over! Please, think twice!" Xu Wenshan glanced at the minor official and, to prevent him from escaping in the chaos, had him tied up in advance.

Li Dazhuang’s and Lei Laohu’s squads moved in—one from the front, one circling the rear—creeping close to the enemy. They waited only for Xu Wenshan’s command to break through simultaneously.

It was afternoon, and the sun was blinding. Outside the courtyard, the grass swayed in the wind. Three soldiers lay on rattan chairs by the entrance, wearing nothing but helmets to shade their eyes, with no armor in sight. One soldier yawned lazily, and the folk songs of farmers laboring in the distance drifted on the breeze.

Xu Wenshan blew his whistle. A sharp, piercing sound cut through the sky, putting an abrupt end to the peaceful scene in the fields.

Both squads shouted in unison, startling the guards at the gate so that they jumped up, clutching their hats and looking around in confusion. Before they could grasp what was happening, they were struck down by several short staves. Some struggled to crawl toward their weapons, only to be beaten again until they gave up completely, lying flat on the ground and playing dead as per the unspoken rules.

The soldiers stationed in this courtyard were rotating troops, men who would soon return home; they saw no reason to risk their lives. In these warring feudal states, veterans were savvy; they wouldn't fight to the death, but since the army forbade surrender—which would leave a stain on their record—a tacit understanding had developed: if you can't win, just lie on the ground and play dead. It meant, "I'm not fighting you; just don't kill me."

But this time, these veteran slackers had run into peasants from the mountains who didn't know the rules. A guard tapped a soldier’s helmet with the end of his staff and called out, "Squad leader! Look, these guys are all playing dead!"

Li Dazhuang didn't understand why they were playing dead either, but he had no time to ponder. "Ignore them! Follow me into the courtyard!"

With a loud crash and a cloud of dust, a large section of the mud wall at the back of the courtyard collapsed. The wall was made of tamped earth and was already fragile; the soldiers had been urinating against it daily, soaking the base until it grew soft, so it fell at the first impact.

Lei Laohu led his men through the breach, staves in hand, poking anyone who stepped out to investigate. The soldiers inside, already panicked by the unexpected attack from the rear, had lost their morale. They scurried about like headless flies, and upon realizing there was no escape, they simply pulled their helmets over their heads, dropped to the ground, and began to play dead.