“Go to Shangzhuangzi, today is November 7th. That officer’s rank—two-star lieutenant general, Abe Norihide—damn, that’s a big fish!” William Thompson muttered in a low voice.

“Hey, Little Watson? What’s this about big fish and small fish?!” Charles Dean looked at William Thompson in surprise, feeling that this young man he’d just met today was quite odd.

“Stop! Go back, go back!” William Thompson suddenly shouted.

“What’s wrong!” Paul Martin was startled by William Thompson’s sudden outburst.

The artillery company’s soldiers also stopped in their tracks—was this kid crazy?

“Hurry, hurry, go back! Fire a shell at those little devils in Shangzhuangzi—ha, we’ve caught a big fish!” William Thompson shouted. This was history—the first high-ranking Japanese officer killed in the War of Resistance was right in front of them, and right here was an artillery company. This was history, happening right before his eyes, and he was the one making it.

“Hey, Paul Martin, what’s up with that guy?” Company commander Captain Young was startled by William Thompson.

“Haha, that Japanese officer is at least a major, I’m sure of it. I know the Japanese military ranks.” William Thompson almost jumped up. This was one of the most important battles in history—how could he let it slip by? Most likely it was two-star lieutenant general Abe Norihide, the highest-ranking Japanese commander here. What would it mean to take him out?! William Thompson knew very well, but he didn’t say more. Whether his guess was right or not, he didn’t want anyone to know he could predict the future—after all, that would be too suspicious.

“A major? No way!” The Eighth Route Army soldiers gasped, even Paul Martin and Charles Dean widened their eyes. They’d never had a chance to take down such a high-ranking officer before—their breathing quickened.

“You’re sure?” Artillery company commander Captain Young scratched his head, half in doubt. He couldn’t believe such luck. After years of fighting the Japanese, they’d never even taken out a major—though they’d killed plenty of squad leaders and puppet soldiers.

William Thompson nodded firmly!

“Company commander! Let’s do it!” The soldiers carrying the mortar tubes stared at him, their eyes full of fighting spirit.

“Stop advancing, go back, fire a shell at them—blow them up and be done with it! Better to kill by mistake than let one go!” Captain Young yanked off his cap fiercely. He turned to William Thompson and said, “Whether you’re right or not, I’ll trust you this once. Anyway, we’ll just fire one shell and leave. Get ready to approach the target for close-range firing.” Shells were precious—always more valuable than bullets. Captain Young was making a big decision this time.

“Alright!” Paul Martin and Charles Dean cheered again. As members of the guard company, they rarely had a chance to go to the front lines. Even sneaking a shot had to be done carefully to avoid criticism from the leadership. Now they got to watch the artillery in action—of course they were excited. Their youthful enthusiasm was on full display.

From a distance, they aimed at Shangzhuangzi, not far away. The Japanese soldiers there hadn’t noticed the artillery company quietly approaching from the hillside. Several soldiers quickly set up the mortar and aimed at them.

Captain Young had originally served in the 19th Route Army of the Nationalists. After the famous Battle of Shanghai, he’d gone through many twists and turns before joining the Eighth Route Army. He was an experienced veteran artilleryman, and all the men in his platoon had been trained by him personally. This time, he set the highest standards—he wanted to kill the enemy with a single shot. He measured the distance with his thumb, checked the wind speed with a cloth strip, while Paul Martin and the others watched in awe. This was real skill—manual aiming without modern equipment required deep expertise.

In the distant courtyard, several Japanese soldiers stood guard with their guns. Cattle and sheep in the livestock pen grazed leisurely. At that moment, a Japanese soldier slung his rifle, walked to the corner, and began to relieve himself with a look of satisfaction. Just as he was enjoying himself, he suddenly saw a group of people on the hillside opposite, all dressed in blue—that was the Eighth Route Army, the enemy! He was about to shout when a strange whistling sound filled the air, and a fireball exploded in the center of the courtyard. The next moment, everything went black.

A sergeant standing in the yard was blown apart on the spot. The Japanese soldiers manning the machine gun were knocked off the wall. The officer smoking at the main house entrance was hit by the blast, blood spurting as he fell inside.

After a brief panic, the cattle and sheep in the pen gradually calmed down and resumed grazing. The house was completely undamaged, as if nothing had happened—except for the Japanese soldiers lying all over the courtyard.

“Incredible, a direct hit in the courtyard! Well done.” Charles Dean shouted, holding his binoculars.

“Amazing!” Paul Martin took his hands off his ears, full of admiration.

“Seriously wounded—he’s done for!” William Thompson nodded and whispered. He was confident—this was history.

He hadn’t expected that not only had his arrival not changed history, but history had used his hand to strictly carry out its course. William Thompson was a bit emotional—he actually had the chance to witness this glorious moment in history.

“That’s right, I’ve been a veteran for seven or eight years now.” Captain Young heard William Thompson’s words—this was the perfect flattery, and it made David Bolton’s impression of the unfamiliar William Thompson much better.

The surrounding soldiers also looked at the self-satisfied Captain Young with admiration—experts always command respect.