Chapter 265: The Death Of Hideaki Nakano
Inside the trench, Hideaki Nakano paced back and forth anxiously. He occasionally looked up at the sky, hoping to see the silhouettes of reinforcements, but there was nothing except a few wisps of smoke scattered by the wind.
The soldiers remained huddled in the narrow trench, their breathing echoing between the mud walls, heavy and oppressive.
“Alert… enemy planes in the sky!” A sentry suddenly let out a sharp, hoarse shout, his voice distorted by fear.
Hideaki Nakano jerked his head up and saw more than a dozen streaks of eerie blue light approaching at astonishing speed in the sky.
They did not have the bulky fuselage of Japanese army aircraft; instead, they appeared exceptionally light and agile, like messengers of the god of death, carrying an aura of killing intent.
“Anti-air! Quick! Anti-air!”
Hideaki Nakano roared hoarsely, but his voice was soon drowned out by the first wave of explosions.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!”
Accompanied by deafening roars, the first batch of bombs accurately landed on the Japanese army positions.
These were not small bombs weighing just tens of pounds, but heavy bombs of one hundred kilograms or even two hundred fifty kilograms.
In the instant of the explosions, the entire earth seemed to tremble, as soil and broken stones were hurled into the sky by the immense force, mixed with the severed limbs of Japanese soldiers, forming bloody, mutilated mushroom clouds.
The shockwave spread along the trench, shaking the mud walls with a rustling sound, as countless chunks of soil and stones poured down like a torrential rain, pattering densely on the soldiers’ steel helmets.
Hideaki Nakano was thrown to the ground by the violent shaking, his ears ringing, his vision blurred.
He struggled to prop himself up and crawl to his feet, feeling a sickly sweet taste surge into his throat—he knew it was blood. He saw a huge breach blown in the trench beside him; several soldiers were flung up by the shockwave, crashing heavily to the ground with their bodies twisted into grotesque shapes, blood gushing from their mouths and noses, staining the soil beneath them red.
The F4U fighters in the sky showed no sign of stopping; they circled like a flock of predatory eagles over the Japanese positions, continuously dropping their deadly gifts.
Every bomb that fell triggered a mini-earthquake, tearing the Japanese defenses even more thoroughly. The soldiers didn’t even have time to make out the enemy planes before they were swallowed by the blast waves and flying shrapnel.
“Ah…” A Japanese soldier let out a shrill scream as a piece of shrapnel severed his right arm at the root, blood spurting out like a fountain, tracing a scarlet arc in the air.
He rolled in agony on the ground, clutching the stump of his severed arm with his left hand, but unable to stem the gushing blood. The air was filled with the stench of charred flesh and acrid gunsmoke, making the surviving soldiers retch.
Hideaki Nakano watched the hellish scene before him, his heart bleeding.
He had never dreamed that his proud elite unit would be so fragile in the face of this steel torrent.
The bombing inside the trench continued, each explosion making Hideaki Nakano’s heart contract.
His ears were filled with the roars of explosions, the screams of soldiers, and the groans of the dying; his vision was a blur of blood and flesh.
He tried to continue commanding with his hoarse voice, but in this hellish scene, his orders seemed so feeble and powerless.
At that moment, a burst of gunfire closer and more intense than the explosions came from not far away—the distinctive “rat-tat-tat” of Thompson submachine guns, its metallic roar instantly overpowering the sparse “bang-bang” of the Type 38 rifles.
Immediately after, a roar thick with a rural accent accompanied the glint of sharp bayonets from the other end of the trench.
“Brothers! Kill for me!”
Hideaki Nakano spun around, his pupils contracting sharply.
He saw a group of Chinese soldiers with ferocious expressions, their faces caked in mud and blood, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
They wielded compact Thompson submachine guns, muzzles spitting fire, bullets pouring out like rain, turning the narrow trench into a thoroughfare of death.
Zhang Wenshan was one of these Chinese soldiers, a ferocious smile on his face as his Thompson submachine gun “rat-tat-tat” roared, its muzzle sweeping forward, the barrel even carrying the scorched smell of burnt gunpowder.
He charged into the Japanese trench like a tiger descending the mountain.
Inside the trench, the Japanese soldiers were pinned down by the sudden close-range firepower, unable to lift their heads.
Their Type 38 rifles were useless for effective aiming and bayonet charges in such confined spaces; the overly long barrels became a liability, and before they could even thrust their bayonets, the dense bullet storm from the Thompsons had already torn them to shreds.
A Japanese soldier tried to raise his rifle to fight back, but his Type 38 snagged on the trench wall; before he could adjust his stance, Zhang Wenshan’s submachine gun was already aimed at him.
“Rat-tat-tat!” Bullets instantly turned his chest into a honeycomb of gore; his body slumped backward powerlessly, splattering a mist of blood.
“Kill! Kill all these little devils!”
Zhang Wenshan roared, lunging forward in one stride and kicking a Japanese soldier who was trying to bayonet him square in the stomach.
The soldier grunted, his body curling like a shrimp; Zhang Wenshan followed up by smashing his rifle butt viciously into the man’s head. With a dull “thud,” the soldier’s skull burst open, red and white matter mixed with broken bones splattering out and landing on the muddy trench wall, slowly sliding down.
Inside the trench, corpses piled up like mountains, blood staining the soil red, even forming small pools of blood in places.
The air, besides the smell of gunsmoke, was thick with the stench of blood and human excrement, nauseating. The Japanese soldiers were terrified; their vaunted bushido spirit seemed so worthless against the Thompson submachine guns.
They tried to organize a counterattack, but the narrow space and sudden assault prevented them from forming any effective defensive formation.
Zhang Wenshan led his third platoon soldiers forward along the trench like a meat grinder.
Every corner, every straight stretch, was a bloody slaughter. Japanese screams rose and fell; occasional sporadic counterattacks were quickly suppressed.
Their bayonets traced desperate arcs in the air but could not reach the enemies right in front of them. The muzzles of the Thompson submachine guns continued to spew flames of death, pulverizing every obstacle.
Meanwhile, inside the trench, Hideaki Nakano’s face turned ashen as he listened to the screams of his Japanese soldiers nearby, witnessing his men being massacred yet powerless to act.
He even saw a soldier struck by submachine gun bullets, his body torn apart by the powerful impact, entrails and blood spraying out and splattering him.
Warm, sticky fluid slid down his cheek; he instinctively wiped it with his hand and realized it was blood—hot and foul-smelling.
His stomach churned, but he clenched his teeth tightly, forcing himself not to vomit.
He knew this was no time for weakness. He had to find a way, even if just to save one soldier, to buy time and wait for reinforcements.
The meat grinder in the trench continued, Hideaki Nakano’s roars completely drowned out by the Thompson submachine guns’ fury.
His command sword slashed wildly in the air, its tip reflecting pale cold light, as if it were his final inner struggle.
“Colonel, sir! The Chinese are coming! Run!”
A voice choked with sobs exploded in Hideaki Nakano’s ear.
It was his chief of staff, who was now clutching his arm tightly, trying to drag him out of this living hell.
The chief of staff’s face was full of terror, sweat and blood mixed together, looking utterly disheveled. His fingers dug into Hideaki Nakano’s arm, nearly bruising the flesh, afraid he would break free.
Hideaki Nakano’s eyes were bloodshot; he flung his arm violently, using all his strength to shake off the chief of staff’s hand. Like a maddened beast, he drew his command sword from his waist, pointing its tip at the fallen imperial soldiers ahead, roaring: “I won’t go! I will fight alongside the empire’s brave warriors!”
He lunged forward, determined to fight desperately against the Chinese soldiers harvesting Japanese lives.
His steps staggered, as if he might fall at any moment, but that fearless madness propelled him unsteadily onward.
“Quick! Stop the colonel, sir! Take him away!”
Seeing this, the chief of staff disregarded rank and barked orders at several nearby guards.
The guards knew Hideaki Nakano was a valuable asset to the empire; though reluctant to defy their commanding officer, they had no choice now.
They rushed forward, ignoring Hideaki Nakano’s struggles and curses; four or five of them swarmed him, dragging and pulling him toward the rear.
Hideaki Nakano thrashed like a trapped beast, punching and kicking, roaring in frustration, but he was no match for their combined strength. His uniform became disheveled in the tugging, stained with more mud and blood.
However, after retreating just a few steps, the group ran headlong into a team of Chinese soldiers clearing the trench. In the narrow trench, they were almost face-to-face, breaths audible.
In a flash, before the Japanese guards could raise their guns or even touch their triggers, the enemy’s Thompson submachine gun roared.
“Rat-tat-tat!”
The dense bullets tore through the air instantly; the lead Japanese guard’s chest erupted in bursts of blood, his body jerking backward as if struck by a sledgehammer, crashing heavily onto the cold mud, twitching a few times before going still.
Blood gushed from his body, quickly pooling dark red on the ground.
“Go right!”
The chief of staff bellowed, instinctively judging the path and directing the group to rush toward another fork in the trench.
The group darted left and right in the trench like headless flies, trying to shake off the pursuers behind them.
The narrow passages, piled corpses, slippery mud, and the constant gunfire and screams of comrades made every step excruciatingly difficult.
They dodged and weaved, bullets whistling past; companions fell from time to time, but they couldn’t gain speed. Chinese soldiers were everywhere, surging in like tides from all sides, completely encircling the area.
Every turn, every attempt to break through, brought new Chinese soldiers to block them. It was like being trapped in a giant maze—after running for ages, they realized they were still in place, unable to escape the encirclement.
In the end, Zhang Wenshan’s third platoon, after fierce fighting, successfully cornered Hideaki Nakano’s group in a dead end of the trench.
The two sides clashed at close quarters, bayonets clanging with crisp metallic scrapes. Gunfire, shouts, and the dying screams of Japanese soldiers blended into a bloody symphony.
Hideaki Nakano was shielded in the center by several guards as he swung his command sword, fighting for a chance at survival.
His eyes blood-red, like a madman, the blade in his hand reflected faint light, each swing whistling sharply through the air.
Yet he was just one man, surrounded by a group of Chinese soldiers berserk with killing frenzy.
At this point, Zhang Wenshan discarded his empty Thompson submachine gun, grabbing a Type 38 rifle; seizing an opportunity, he dodged Hideaki Nakano’s swinging blade, sidestepped, and thrust the rifle forward viciously.
The sharp bayonet pierced Hideaki Nakano’s abdomen like a viper’s fang, precise and ruthless.
“Squish!”
A dull sound of flesh parting rang out as the bayonet tip emerged from Hideaki Nakano’s back, carrying warm entrails.
His body jerked violently, eyes bulging wide, mouth agape, but no sound came out.
A warm, foul-smelling flow gushed from his abdomen, quickly soaking his uniform.
He looked down at the bayonet protruding from his body; the madness in his eyes faded, replaced by emptiness and bewilderment. His body swayed a few times, and his command sword fell powerlessly to the ground with a clear metallic clank.
Zhang Wenshan yanked the bayonet back, spurts of red blood gushing from the wound, splattering the trench walls.
Hideaki Nakano’s body went limp, knees buckling as he knelt heavily on the ground.
He clutched his bleeding abdomen with both hands, blood surging from between his fingers like a spring, warm and sticky. His breathing grew rapid and faint, bloody froth bubbling from his mouth with each gasp.
He struggled to raise his head, gazing at the smoke-blackened sky above, as if grasping for one last gleam of light, but his vision blurred.
“Thud!”
Finally, Hideaki Nakano’s body lost all support, collapsing face-down into the muddy trench. His mouth and nose clogged with blood and mud, his body twitched a few times before falling completely still.
His blood mixed with that of countless Japanese soldiers in the trench, seeping into the cold soil, becoming another silent footnote to this land.
“Captain… look, this is one of the little devils’ colonels!” In his fading consciousness, Hideaki Nakano seemed to hear a Chinese soldier’s voice…
