Chapter 656 - Victory Parade

The "Memorial Service" held by the Religious Affairs Office outside Chengmai achieved great success. The Yuan Laoyuan had decided that enough killing had been done; there was no need for theatrical displays with corpses. Neither the public beheadings, nor stringing bodies from trees all the way from Chengmai to Qiongshan, nor the ancient practice of erecting a jingguan were carried out. Prisoners and laborers established several large cremation pyres near the shore, cremated the bodies, then built several proper collective tombs for the ashes and erected "Fallen Heroes Memorials." The Church, the New Daoism, and locally conscripted monks conducted services for three consecutive days, leaving Wu Shimang and his colleagues utterly exhausted. The stench from burning bodies on the cremation day had robbed them of appetite for days.

Ceremonies for the dead are performed for the living. After this large-scale religious ceremony, not only Chengmai but also Qiongshan, Ding'an, and Wenchang saw dramatic shifts in public opinion toward the "bald bandits." Even on the mainland, the reputation of the bald bandits' benevolence spread.

People discussed it among themselves: the Fubogun not only recovered and buried enemy remains but also held memorial services to comfort departed souls and erected monuments in their honor. Clearly, these were not brutal, barbaric people.

The Fubogun's casualties, including missing personnel, totaled 161. He Ying had originally planned to build coffins on-site and transport them back to Cuigang for burial. But Liu Muzhou argued it would be better to cremate locally and send the urns back for interment.

"That might not sit well," He Ying said. He had researched local customs. "Earth burial is deeply ingrained. Switching suddenly to cremation..."

"The cremation system must be promoted starting now," Liu Muzhou said. "This war is an opportunity. If we pander to every old social custom, we'll accomplish nothing. Let's start with our own people!"

At the ceremony for the Fubogun's fallen, a single infantry battalion remaining in Chengmai fired three volleys. Then twelve cannons boomed three times. Military flags were lowered in mourning. Everything was solemn and dignified. The military band played Abide with Me. Even the most arrogant transmigrator officers shed tears for the native soldiers they had always regarded as cannon fodder.

The army had gained dignity in honoring its fallen—dignity that came not just from officers and men, but from those who had taught them entirely new weapons and tactics. An army was not merely a tool; it was composed of human beings.

I hope the transmigrators all understand this, He Ming thought. He watched the pyres blazing by the shore, black smoke billowing skyward. The camphor and cypress added to the firewood made the smell far less nauseating than it had been days before. The sea breeze intermittently dispersed the smoke, improving the air considerably. He whispered to his aide: "Is the vehicle ready?"

"The car has arrived," the aide said quietly.

As soon as the ceremony ended, he would return to Lingao to participate in planning the next phase of military operations. First, the advance to the Qiongshan-Wenchang-Ding'an line; then the organization of garrison companies in each county.

When the ceremony concluded, he immediately returned to the temporary command post. The commander of the 6th Infantry Battalion, Zhu Quanxing, who was remaining in Chengmai, was waiting for him.

"I'm heading back to Ma'ao at once," He Ming said simply. "After I leave, the Chengmai Work Team will arrive in a few days. You need to help them establish our authority throughout the Chengmai area as quickly as possible—especially security consolidation."

"Yes, I'll do everything I can."

"You must give it your all, but as 'support.' Make sure you understand the distinction."

Zhu Quanxing said clearly: "Yes, I understand!"

"Good. During this troop withdrawal, only your 6th Battalion is staying. No rest period, and you're immediately thrown into security operations—the soldiers may grumble. Keep a close eye on unit morale."

"Director Wei says the Chengmai delegation from the touring group will arrive soon. Merit evaluations have begun—that will occupy much of the soldiers' attention."

The jeep bounced along the rutted post road. Shan Daoqian's prisoner work crews hadn't yet extended the highway to Chengmai. Rain began to fall outside; water sheeted down the windshield, and wind drove rain into the vehicle, dampening his uniform. He Ming sat alone in the back seat. The rain drummed so densely on the canvas roof it was almost inaudible. He peered out the window—the streaming water blurred the scenery outside. He told the driver: "Slow down!"

"Yes, Comrade Commander."

He closed his eyes, appearing to rest, but his mind was unsettled.

For the past few days, troubling news had come from Ma'ao. Rumor had it that some transmigrators objected to his conduct of operations, calling them wasteful while producing unsatisfactory results; they were allegedly preparing to initiate impeachment proceedings in the Yuan Laoyuan. This rumor had stirred considerable discussion among transmigrator officers who had returned to the Ma'ao base. Many were grumbling.

He Ming was not particularly concerned. The war had been won; the debate was merely about the extent of success. He personally cared little about his own honors—he was already the Army People's Commissar and could hardly be promoted any higher. He believed his qualifications, prestige, and conduct were more than sufficient to thwart any ill intentions.

The army's immediate priority was rapid occupation of the entire island. There was no time to dwell on distractions. He refocused, thinking about what he would do upon returning to Ma'ao—which personnel to dispatch to organize the garrison companies.

The under-construction Army base was a scene of bustling activity. The units returning from Chengmai had rested for several days and resumed regular training. Morale was high after the great victory.

Today, there was no formal drill. Instead, a single order had been issued: "Prepare your appearance!"

Everyone immediately understood: important personages from Bairren were coming to inspect the troops.

So everyone got busy. Barracks were cleaned, windows polished, parade grounds swept... followed by endless personal inspections. Weapons wiped and polished; damaged flags mended—the flags were newly made before the campaign but already tattered after battle. Officers and NCOs sharpened their sabers to gleaming. The battalion's cobblers and blacksmiths worked frantically, repairing sabers, shoes, and equipment.

Even the militia and laborers who had participated were ordered to tidy their appearance. Haircuts, shaves, baths, washed and mended clothes. The militia and laborers felt honored—they had thought they were just there to work; they hadn't expected the transmigrator chiefs to "inspect" them too. Rumors spread that after the inspection, generous rewards would be distributed.

Yang Zeng was in his quarters, having gotten a haircut and shave. He changed into a brand-new uniform—this year's issue, which he had been reluctant to wear until now. The clothes he had worn during the campaign were in tatters; he had turned in the old uniform to the quartermaster and received new clothing vouchers. Many had already collected new uniforms, but he was in no hurry—he had heard the battalion commander mention offhand that new-style uniforms would be issued soon, more elegant than the current ones.

His orderly, Wei Darong, was polishing his belt and combat boots. Wei Darong was a boy-faced young man. He sat on a small stool, carefully oiling the boots and polishing the belt's metal fittings with powdered tile shards until they gleamed.

"Captain! Who do you think will be inspecting us?"

"I don't know—probably someone from the Executive Committee." As an army officer, Yang Zeng understood somewhat more about the transmigrators' government. "I imagine Chairman Wen will be there."

"Is Chairman Wen the new emperor?"

"No—" Yang Zeng laughed absently. "Of course not. The Australians' emperor is in Australia. Chairman Wen's title is 'Chairman.'"

"What kind of official is a Chairman? A Prefect? A Regional Commander?"

Yang Zeng couldn't quite place the equivalent rank. But as a former bandit who had fled the mainland for Hainan, he had seen more of the world than most. "I suppose something like a Grand Secretary."

Wei Darong was still unsatisfied—he didn't know what a Grand Secretary was.

"...Like a Prime Minister!" Yang Zeng finally found an apt comparison.

"I see." The orderly somewhat understood. "Your boots are ready."

Yang Zeng put on his boots, buckled his belt, and let his orderly hang his command saber. The officers' quarters had a dressing mirror. He examined his reflection carefully, feeling very imposing. He thought of how just three years ago he had stood guard at Gou Family Stockade with a matchlock—it felt like a previous lifetime.

"Hang the stars." Wei Darong brought a wooden box.

Inside were newly issued medal insignia. To enhance military and staff pride, the Yuan Laoyuan had instituted a medal system, retroactively manufacturing and distributing decorations.

Yang Zeng's medals were modest: the National Defense Service Medal—a soaring dragon beneath the service branch insignia. This was awarded to military personnel who served their full term obediently and loyally. Nearly everyone with a year's service received it. Then there was the ribbon for the Lieutenant Promotion Commemorative Medal: a silver star on a bronze background. Then the Outstanding Service Commendation: awarded for distinguished combat or training achievements not quite meriting a Third-Class Military Merit Medal. The ribbon was a military service branch pattern on a red background.

...

"Captain, you have so many medals." Looking at the ribbons on his chest, Wei Darong said enviously. He himself had only a Basic Training Badge; his rank was merely Private Second Class.

"They're just commemorative medals," Yang Zeng said. "Work hard and you'll earn them too." In his eyes, the most valuable was the Lingao Pacification Commemorative Medal. Though merely commemorative, it represented seniority—only those who had served the Australians earliest in combat could receive it: veterans of the assault on Gou Family Stockade and the Lingao bandit suppression campaigns. Yang Zeng had been captured in the first battle but quickly became a soldier in the second.

But Yang Zeng knew he would soon receive a truly exceptional medal. The battalion commander had already spoken with him, recommending him for a Second-Class Military Merit award.

Once recommended without objection, approval was certain—and receiving a military merit medal at this time was especially significant. It would be awarded after the Army-wide Victory Review, far more honorable than a routine Second-Class Merit.

Having become a company commander with military merit, the next step was climbing higher. He thought of his battalion commander—maybe before long, he too would command a battalion.

Yang Zeng made the chain of his command saber clink and clatter, feeling elated. He looked at his light infantry sash and carefully straightened it, then drew his officer's revolver, examined it, and returned it to its holster.

"How do I look?"

"Very imposing, Captain!" Wei Darong's admiration was sincere.

"Good." Yang Zeng examined his reflection once more. "Tell the Company Sergeant Major I'll be inspecting the barracks this afternoon! Make sure everything is spotless."

The next day, the entire Ma'ao camp gleamed like a newly minted coin, awaiting the delegation's arrival.

The five battalions assembled on the base's great parade ground. At the sound of bugles, company after company moved with fixed bayonets and waving flags, forming ranks at officers' commands with precise spacing. Each company carried newly sewn colors, banners streaming in the wind with all manner of strange devices. The artillery's gun carriages, their wheels polished clean, stood in neat rows; the gleaming cannons were arrayed. Everyone wore freshly cleaned and mended uniforms; soldiers' belts and gaiters were strapped as tight as possible. Officers wore all their medals, new white gloves, and saber scabbards with brass fittings polished mirror-bright.

Every officer and soldier felt his own insignificance—a grain of sand in this sea of men. Yet each also sensed his own strength as part of this vast, mighty whole.

He Ming, Dongmen Chuiyu, Wei Aiwen, Pan Da, and the others gazed into the distance. According to the telephone dispatch, the delegation would arrive at Ma'ao by ten in the morning.

"They're coming, they're coming." As a runner approached, a low murmur spread.

Members of the delegation dismounted from their agricultural vehicles at a distance and walked toward them.

He Ming knew they were: Executive Committee Chairman Wen Desi, Central State Council Premier Ma Qianzhu, Manufacturing Director Zhan Wuya, and a host of People's Commissars and ministers. The delegation's rank was extraordinarily high.

He saw that Wen Desi and the others had reached the reviewing stand, less than ten meters from the first formation. He immediately stepped forward to meet them. Behind him, Dongmen Chuiyu gave the command: "Attention!"

Like raindrops striking, the formations responded with a single, unified sound, rolling like a wave.

He Ming walked up to Wen Desi and saluted:

"Representative of the Yuan Laoyuan!" He Ming shouted. "Please inspect the troops! Field Army Commander He Ming!"

Wen Desi returned the salute. Then, accompanied by He Ming, he walked to the flank of the 1st Battalion. The battalion's bugler sounded a march. Wen Desi raised his hand in acknowledgment, then spoke a few words of encouragement to the battalion commander and soldiers. The 1st Infantry Battalion roared in response: "Serve the Yuan Laoyuan and the People!" Then came rhythmic chanting—continuous, like vast waves—sweeping from one end of the parade ground to the other.

Yang Zeng stood before his company. He had never felt such pride and glory. He could feel the same emotion in every man of the formation—selfless devotion, pride in the collective strength, fervent adoration of those who had built this army.

The transmigrators passed in front of Yang Zeng's company. Wang Luobin seemed to remember this officer—he had once been their best Minié rifle marksman.

"This is—"

"Yang Zeng," He Ming introduced. "Commander of the 1st Battalion's Light Infantry Company."

"Your marksmanship is excellent!"

"Yes!" He was so nervous he could barely speak.

Wen Desi asked: "Has he received any commendations?"

"He's been awarded a Second-Class Merit."

"A true hero." Wen Desi said, then slowly moved on.

Yang Zeng felt a tremendous wave of happiness wash over him, leaving him dizzy. At that moment, if ordered to charge a thousand enemies alone with nothing but his rifle, he would do so without hesitation.

As Wen Desi and the others proceeded, cheers rolled from company to company. Bugles blared, drums beat. The sound grew ever louder, merging into a deafening roar.

The soldiers watched the chiefs. Many were seeing the demigod-like leaders up close for the first time. They were tall, wearing the plainest uniforms—no belts, no boots, no medals or honors of any kind. Their simplicity, combined with expressions of gravity or benevolence as they waved and nodded to the men, filled the soldiers with an instinctive love: these chiefs possessed inexhaustible wealth and godlike power, yet their dress and bearing resembled neither officials nor the wealthy. This simplicity and approachability stirred feelings of exaltation and intimacy, drawing wave after wave of ever-louder cheers.

Then the transmigrators came before the militia and laborers. Though their ranks were less orderly than the regulars, their devotion produced equally thunderous cheers.

Wen Desi stopped and raised his hand in salute to the countless dark peasant faces—all so alike in his eyes:

"Comrades, you have worked hard!"

The parade ground erupted in deafening cheers—less orderly than the army's, but brimming with unparalleled fervor. Many wept openly in the ranks—this was the first time in their decades of life that they had ever received such respect. They were not merely conscripts dragged here for forced labor.

Finally, Wen Desi said: "Each and every one of you—on behalf of the Yuan Laoyuan, on behalf of all the people—I sincerely thank you for everything you have done."

He looked out over the assembly:

"You have earned the colors bestowed upon you by the Yuan Laoyuan and the people. You are worthy of the honor and mission of those colors."