Chapter 139: The Grim Reaper Descends
Su Yaoyang’s words were correct; the Japanese truly had no preparation whatsoever for the arrival of the security regiment.
Shizui Village is located at the junction of Mount Wutai and Hebei, guarding the Hutuo River Valley, with a very key geographical position, so the Japanese army built a bunker complex here consisting of one main fort and six sub-forts.
The entire bunker complex was garrisoned by one company of Japanese troops and one battalion of puppet troops. Relying on this bunker complex, the Japanese army firmly guarded the passage from Longquan County to Wutai County.
The geographical position of the Shizui Village bunker complex was so important that the highest commander here was a captain named Nishiyama Toru, which was already considered high allocation.
Today, Nishiyama Toru got up very early. After getting out of bed in his exclusive bedroom on the third floor of the main fort, he lazily washed up and then came to the top of the fort, enjoying breakfast while basking in the sun.
As he was a lieutenant-level officer, according to regulations, his daily food calorie intake was 3000 kcal. He could enjoy refined rice, noodles, or steamed buns as staples, with small amounts of meat as side dishes, and occasionally alcoholic beverages were supplied.
Moreover, the officers had a dedicated cafeteria equipped with tables, chairs, cutlery, and so on.
Of course, the soldiers at the bottom levels did not have such treatment and could only eat mixed grains like brown rice, sorghum, and beans. Their dining area was also outdoors, using lunch boxes or even eating directly with their hands.
After enjoying a bowl of noodles and a steamed bun, Nishiyama Toru had his orderly brew a cup of tea and sat at the top of the pillbox watching the scenery.
The morning sun dyed the green bricks at the top of the pillbox blood-red. Nishiyama Toru’s fingertips rubbed the cracks in the coarse porcelain teacup.
Two pieces of inferior tea leaves floated in the tea soup. He stared at them sinking and floating in the ripples, like overlooking the land below his feet that had been licked by the flames of war.
In the distance, rice fields rolled with scorched brown waves, and a few charred locust trees stood alone on the horizon. The wind carried grass and wood ash past his nose tip, and he suddenly thought of the maple leaves in his hometown Kyoto, which were also this glaringly red.
He couldn’t help but sigh: “What beautiful scenery, it’s such a pity that such beautiful land is occupied by those lowly Chinese.”
Just as Nishiyama Toru finished speaking, a faint tremor came from the bluestone slab ground under his feet. He frowned and pressed the edge of the table, the tea leaves in the cup rippling finely.
“This noise…”
Before he could finish speaking, a harsh metal friction sound began to enter his ears.
He looked toward the sound and saw nine tanks crushing the soil on the distant road, their tracks rolling over broken stone blocks emitting creaking noises.
The cannon barrel of the lead tank suddenly turned, its black muzzle pointing directly at the pillbox where he was.
Nishiyama Toru suddenly felt his breathing freeze, his whole body instantly stiffening.
After a while, he finally regained control of his body, rushed to the third floor in one grab, yanked the binoculars hanging on the wall, then crouched at the firing slit, raised the binoculars, and looked over.
This glance was shocking; what entered his eyes was the blue sky, white sun emblem on the tank turret, somewhat blurry but instantly recognizable.
His whole body staggered, knocking over the table behind him. The teacup instantly fell to the ground, and with a crisp sound, shards of porcelain splashed at his feet.
“It’s tanks… Chinese tanks… The Chinese main force is coming!
Quick… sound the alarm!”
“Woo woo woo…”
With the alarm sounding, the entire bunker complex began to panic. Japanese and puppet troops jumped out of bed or dropped their bowls and chopsticks and rushed toward the forts.
Nishiyama Toru no longer had his earlier expression; like a arrogant fox suddenly encountering a tiger just down from the mountain, his previous composure and arrogance instantly vanished, replaced by panic and fright.
Arrogance depends on the opponent. Facing those Eighth Route Army with Hanyang-made rifles or even homemade guns and cannons, he naturally had reason to be arrogant, but facing the National Revolutionary Army with tanks and heavy artillery, this stronghold was just a slightly harder eggshell.
He grabbed the phone on the table, shook it hard a few times, and shouted loudly: “Moshi moshi… I am Nishiyama Toru, commander of the Shizui Village stronghold.
A large Chinese force suddenly appeared outside the stronghold, equipped with a considerable number of tanks. Requesting tactical guidance… requesting tactical guidance.”
“Boom…”
While Nishiyama Toru was hurriedly calling the Wutai County commander for help, the lead Renault FT tank had already stopped.
The tank cannon’s black muzzle pointed at the main fort where Nishiyama Toru was.
“Boom…”
Accompanied by a huge explosion, a 75mm armor-piercing round easily penetrated the wall built of green bricks and cement.
Gun smoke wrapped in broken stones surged out, and the suddenly bright firelight inside the bunker illuminated the cracked walls like the fangs of a demon.
The pillboxes built by the Japanese in Shanxi were mostly cylindrical or square multi-layer towers, 8-15 meters high, 5-8 meters in diameter, usually divided into 3-4 layers.
Mostly brick and stone structures, some important strongholds’ pillbox outer layers were poured with concrete, up to 0.3-0.5 meters thick.
These pillboxes could withstand rifle, light machine gun bullets, and hand grenade shrapnel, but were powerless against direct fire from mortars or mountain guns, let alone armor-piercing rounds from tank cannons.
Nishiyama Toru crouched below the firing slit, his eardrums buzzing from the explosion, flying cement fragments grazing his cheek with stinging pain, but not as much as the frantic pounding in his chest.
One round… just one shell had blasted a big hole in this fort that the Japanese had taken months to build.
Gun smoke poured back in from the shell hole, mixing sulfur and blood smells churning in his lungs.
Nishiyama Toru saw a charred half rifle lying in a pool of blood, its barrel still smoking.
In the corner, there was a mutilated body, intestines hanging like torn hemp rope on the shelf. Viscous liquid dripped along the edge of the steel helmet, indistinguishable as sweat or blood.
“Rat-tat-tat…”
At this moment, urgent machine gun fire suddenly rang out around him; it was the Type 92 heavy machine guns from the other sub-forts opening fire.
That woodpecker-like sound was very distinctive; he would never mistake it.
Nishiyama Toru struggled to the firing slit and looked out, seeing a sub-fort on the right firing at the tanks approaching on the road.
Unfortunately, the 7.7mm bullets hitting the tank only sparked slightly with no effect.
Of course, the firing of that Type 92 heavy machine gun was not without benefit; it immediately attracted the attention of the tanks outside.
Five seconds… it only lasted five seconds, then three shells hit the sub-fort almost simultaneously. In an earth-shattering explosion, the sub-fort flew into the air, and the more than thirty Japanese and puppet troops inside all perished.
Seeing this scene, Nishiyama Toru’s heart completely sank. He knew that if nothing unexpected happened, his life would end today in this foreign land’s fort.
Watching the distant tanks turn their muzzles again, he gave a bitter smile, slowly closed his eyes, and quietly awaited the arrival of death…
