Chapter 253: Struggling Desperately
Dawn, the first light broke through.
However, what tore through the silence above the pumpkin shop was not the morning birdsong, but a chilling shriek approaching from afar.
On the eastern horizon, just beginning to show a pale glow, dozens of tiny black dots appeared out of thin air.
These black dots rapidly enlarged at a speed visible to the naked eye, and upon reaching the airspace above the pumpkin shop, as if receiving a silent command, they suddenly changed course en masse, transforming into elegant parabolas as they dove fiercely toward the ground!
“Air raid! Chinese planes!”
“Enemy aircraft incoming!”
The sharp alarm sirens and shrill shouts instantly shattered the tranquility of the Japanese army’s positions.
The Japanese soldiers, just awakened from exhausted sleep, rushed out of their crude bunkers and tents with faces full of terror, not even having time to dress properly.
They looked up, despairingly watching the SBD Dauntless dive bombers descending at near-vertical angles like “death vultures.”
These days, this scene had become their inescapable nightmare.
When the aircraft dove to extremely low altitude, the bombs under their bellies detached from the racks, whistling like the reaper as they accurately smashed into the Japanese army’s positions, artillery bunkers, and assembly areas.
The instant the bombs were dropped, the aircraft executed a beautiful left-turn climb full of violent aesthetics; the powerful engines roared deafeningly, effortlessly pulling the heavy airframe back into the sky, out of range of ground anti-aircraft fire—the entire process smooth as flowing water, brimming with deadly elegance.
Immediately after, a earth-shaking series of violent explosions erupted from afar!
“Boom! Booom…”
Massive fireballs and black smoke pillars rose one after another across the Japanese army’s positions.
Dirt, rubble, limbs, and severed body parts were hurled high into the sky, then fell back like raindrops.
Sturdy fortifications were easily torn open, and the soldiers hiding inside were shaken to death or shredded by shrapnel.
Since the July 7 Incident, the war had lasted nearly three years.
As the most senior and battle-hardened “Type A divisions” in the Japanese Army, the 3rd Division from Nagoya and the 13th Division from Sendai had seen countless battles against Chinese forces.
Deep in their bones, they held contempt for the Chinese army and pride as the “elite of the Imperial Army.”
But in these few days at the pumpkin shop, everything they prided themselves on had been utterly crushed.
They had never experienced such a hopeless battle.
In their understanding, air raids were the exclusive domain of the Imperial Japanese Army and Navy Air Service.
It should be them piloting aircraft, dropping bombs at will over Chinese soil, and watching the pathetic bugs scatter in ugly panic on the ground.
But now, everything was reversed.
The change began over a week ago, when that force calling itself the Shanxi Militia engaged them in battle.
On the first day of fighting, the Chinese aircraft appearing in the sky were just scattered dozens of sorties, causing considerable trouble but still within bearable limits.
But as the battle continued, the situation grew increasingly terrifying.
The Chinese aircraft in the sky multiplied, from dozens of sorties to a fixed, unwavering hundreds of sorties every day!
These superior, insanely fast aircraft, like a flock of tireless hunting falcons, took turns assaulting, dumping thousands upon tens of thousands of tons of heavy bombs and incendiaries over their heads like they were free.
Air superiority, once their proudest advantage, had now become the Sword of Damocles hanging over their heads.
They could only huddle passively in bunkers, praying the bombs wouldn’t hit them. Any action exposing them in open ground was tantamount to suicide.
Pumpkin shop, this once unremarkable small town, now seemed like a massive magnet, firmly attracting the most elite units from both Chinese and Japanese sides around it.
The brutal fighting filled the air in this area with an indescribable, pungent stench mixed of charred odor and blood.
It was the smell of burning steel, trees bombed into charcoal, and countless charred, rotting corpses blended together.
This smell drilled into everyone’s nostrils, seeped into their skin, constantly reminding them that this place was hell.
A breeze blew through the ruins of the pumpkin shop, kicking up clouds of black, pungent charred dust. The entire former town was now shrouded in an inescapable haze, like a ghost realm.
When Chinese planes came to bomb, those already-ruined positions would ignite once more.
But these fires always extinguished quickly, as there was nothing left to burn. For the Japanese soldiers barely holding on in the positions, the bombings and flames had become as routine as eating and drinking in battle. They had grown accustomed to this hellish daily life.
In the distance, the massive smoke pillars from the latest explosions were clearly visible even to the fresh recruits just arriving at the positions, still clueless about the situation.
The massive explosions jolted Colonel Kawanari Mitsu awake as he huddled in a pile of rubble, having just fallen asleep. He sat up abruptly, his bloodshot eyes filled with shock and exhaustion.
The explosions came from the rear; he instinctively looked that way and saw trucks pulling up, groups of replacement soldiers in clean uniforms, faces bewildered yet faintly fanatical, jumping down under officers’ shouts.
Looking at those fresh, youthful faces, Colonel Kawanari’s once-arrogant expression now showed only deep helplessness. He let out a long sigh, a sense of powerlessness overwhelming him like a tide.
How long could these men survive on this land? A day? Or half a day?
Farther away, in a dilapidated civilian house reduced to its frame, Major General Katayama Riichiro, 13th Division’s 5th Brigade commander, watched impassively through a ragged window hole.
“Pumpkin shop is the Chinese meat grinder!” he said in a toneless voice, as if stating an objective fact.
Yet every staff officer and subordinate around him silently completed the second half in their minds: Pumpkin shop was no less a meat grinder for the Imperial Japanese Army.
This fact was more brutal than any battle report.
Four days ago, they had received over a thousand replacement troops, but in just three or four days, fewer than three hundred could still stand.
A casualty rate over seventy percent was unimaginable in any previous campaign against China.
“Hopefully… the Chinese planes won’t spot them.”
A young officer, watching the assembling replacements, couldn’t help muttering a prayer.
Before his words faded, as if to refute him deliberately, that all-too-familiar shriek—like the reaper’s scythe slicing air—suddenly pierced the sky!
Everyone’s faces changed drastically; they instinctively looked up.
Several shark-mouthed F4U Corsair fighters emerged like ghosts from the clouds, diving at an extremely tricky angle toward the replacement troops’ disembarking assembly area!
Immediately followed by the dense, scalp-numbing chatter of machine guns and successive violent explosions!
“Rat-tat-tat-tat—Boom! Booom!”
The Japanese replacement troops’ position advancing toward the pumpkin shop instantly became a sea of fire! The once orderly formation disintegrated in an instant.
Bomb blasts and machine gun tracers intertwined, blanketing the entire area.
The position echoed with the gut-wrenching screams of the wounded. Everywhere were bloodied limb remnants instantly shattered by the aircraft’s large-caliber machine guns.
People alive moments ago became indistinguishable piles of minced meat the next second.
Major General Katayama Riichiro watched this hellish scene through the window hole, expressionless. His hand gripped the window frame tightly.
His prayer had failed.
Or rather, under this sky shrouded in death’s shadow, any prayer was superfluous.
The infernal scene on the position left every surviving Japanese soldier utterly demoralized.
The air reeked of charred flesh and gunpowder; survivors’ wails and the dying’s moans wove a symphony of despair.
A young lieutenant named Sato Kenji peered out from behind a pile of precarious rubble, staring blankly at it all.
Just moments ago, he had watched a large aerial bomb lift an entire squad of replacements—along with the ground beneath them—into the air.
He desperately wanted to vomit, but his stomach was empty; he could only dry-heave.
He shook his head numbly, as if to shake the horrific images from his mind.
Then, like a walking corpse, he crawled onto a relatively flat stone, carefully pulling a small oilcloth-wrapped notebook and pen from his bosom.
In this so-called hell of pumpkin shop, writing to his beloved far away in Hokkaido was perhaps the only spiritual solace for a soldier like him. With trembling hands, he wrote the first line on the rough paper.
“My dearest Yoko:”
Just writing that name brought a faint ripple to Sato Kenji’s bloodshot, nearly lifeless eyes.
“The bomb explosions woke me from sleep again; my only relief is that I’m still alive.”
He paused, listening intently. The explosions had faded, but the lingering vibration hummed in his eardrums.
He glanced at a nearby corpse mangled beyond recognition, his grip tightening on the pen.
“A heavy rain fell last night, soaking us all through.
All buildings here are destroyed by heavy artillery or planes, walls riddled with shrapnel holes. I searched everywhere but couldn’t find a clean spot; this less-than-three-square-meter patch I’m on now is the cleanest I could find.
The intense fighting has lasted over half a month. Yesterday, the Imperial Army launched at least 12 charges against the Chinese, but all were repelled, at heavy cost to us.”
Writing this, yesterday’s scenes flashed in his mind.
His squad, following the main force, charged the enemy positions again and again, only to be mowed down like wheat by dense fire nets. His hometown friend was riddled with machine gun bullets right before his eyes.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to continue.
“But we never regret it, for it is for the Emperor and the Holy War. Our bravery earned praise from the brigade commander, and we were granted rest.
Dearest Yoko, if not for these damned Chinese, I should be marrying you right now.”
Longing surged; his pen sped up, handwriting growing messy.
“We could be enjoying our newlywed bliss, but it’s all those Chinese’s fault—why won’t they surrender?
We’ve clearly killed their army group commander, yet they show no sign of surrender.
And I can’t figure it out—it’s already April, but nights here are still so damn cold.
“The wood piles were soaked out by rain; pumpkin shop is as rainy as Hokkaido, and they won’t light anymore.
The soldiers sent yesterday to gather firewood haven’t returned—probably ghosts under Chinese snipers by now.
To preserve combat strength, the battalion commander ordered: no one sticks their head out for firewood under enemy guns. We huddle together, warming by body heat.”
He instinctively hunched his neck; the damp chill seeped back into his bones. Nearby, several soldiers huddled, shivering, their vacant eyes staring into the unknown distance.
“I don’t know how long this battle will last—hours, days, or longer.
I hope the Chinese stop their mad bombing temporarily. I’ve never longed for our planes like now; I miss them so much.”
He looked up at the gray sky—empty, nothing but despair.
The Empire’s eagles seemed to have forgotten this forsaken land.
When his pen tip touched his heart’s softest spot, his handwriting softened.
“Dearest Yoko, if I survive to return to you, I want to tell you in person how much I love you!
Akina Mountain is a nice place; when I get back, let’s hold the wedding there!
Invite all our friends and family, serve them the best sake and rice balls.”
A fleeting, illusory smile appeared on his dirt-caked face. He seemed to see Yoko in white bridal robes, Akina Mountain blanketed in cherry blossoms. But this beauty was soon shattered by harsh reality.
“But if I die in battle, dearest Yoko, please don’t cry for me—I promised your father you wouldn’t.
I give my life for the Emperor, as I give my whole heart to you. Dearest Yoko, wait for me! I’ll be home soon, very soon.”
Finally, he solemnly signed his name and the date.
Your loving Sato Kenji, April 25, Showa 15
He carefully folded the letter, treating it like his most precious treasure, tucking it into the oilcloth pouch and pressing it tight against his chest. The paper’s edges dug into his chest through the damp, cold uniform, giving him a illusory sense of comfort.
At that very moment, in this battlefield’s brief, deathly respite.
A shriek far sharper and higher-pitched than diving aircraft suddenly pierced from the horizon!
“Whooo… whoo-whoosh…”
Every surviving Japanese soldier simultaneously looked up.
What was that sound?
The next second, the answer revealed itself.
The entire world seemed gripped by an invisible giant hand, then detonated violently!
“Booom…”
Sato Kenji didn’t even have time to scream before an irresistible force from the ground hurled him—along with the rubble beneath—high into the air! He felt like a leaf in a storm, body out of control.
Then he was slammed to the ground, his occiput smashing hard against a sharp rock.
The deafening explosions weren’t one, but a barrage! Hundreds, thousands of shells blanketed the entire Japanese frontline in the same instant! The earth trembled, wailed, tore in frenzy and persistence! The “cleanest spot” he’d been on was now a massive smoking crater.
He struggled to lift his head; warm, sticky liquid flowed from his forehead, gumming his eyes. He blinked hard; his vision turned blood-red.
He saw the comrade who’d been huddling with him for warmth—his upper body gone, only legs still curled.
Another was ripped in half by the blast wave.
This wasn’t an air raid!
This was artillery! Ground-based, unprecedented, devastating artillery!
The Chinese—not only had planes, but such terrifying artillery!
Everyone’s ears rang with a continuous, maddening buzz.
Sato Kenji heard nothing, only saw the position disintegrating in fire and explosions. The letter in his bosom, carrying all his hopes and longing, now seemed so laughable and pale.
Yes, this was artillery fire.
Just last night, after grueling marches, the Shanxi Militia Heavy Artillery Regiment 2 finally reached pumpkin shop. After setting up thirty-six 155mm howitzers, they unleashed fierce bombardment on the Japanese positions.
In less than an hour, they poured over two thousand shells.
Instantly turning the Japanese positions to rubble; the already struggling troops suffered worse. Many soldiers cracked under the brutality, spirits near collapse; officers executed over ten with extreme measures to restore order.
Finally, with no other choice, Division Commander Yamazoe Masataka sent a telegram to 11th Army Commander Sonobe…
