Chapter 305: It’s Over
It had to be said that the Japanese army in 1940, even facing such a desperate situation, still possessed a certain combat effectiveness.
Hunger, cold, and exhaustion did not weaken their will at all; instead, like wild beasts driven into a corner, it aroused the last ferocity deep in their hearts, making them even more frenzied and reckless.
“Charge! Jade Fragment!”
Masami Takagi suddenly swung his hand and roared hoarsely.
Following his order, two soldiers carrying heavy explosive packs, like two beasts driven to the end of the road, let out fanatical roars and leaped out of the trench.
They trampled through the mud, charging madly toward the tank slowly climbing up the mountain below.
However, their bodies had just rushed out more than ten meters when they were firmly nailed to the mud by the hail of bullets from the tank and the infantry behind it.
“Da da da… Tu tu tu!”
The dense bullets instantly tore through their uniforms and ripped open their flesh.
Their bodies, under the impact of the bullets’ tremendous kinetic energy, trembled and convulsed uncontrollably, as if pulled by invisible ropes, and finally crashed heavily to the ground.
The explosive packs in their hands were also flung away by the inertia of their bodies, rolling a few times in the mud, ultimately landing far away, failing to reach the intended target.
The soldiers of the First Regiment of the Shanxi Militia, under the cover of the Renault tanks, continued to close in on the Japanese army’s frontline trench.
Masami Takagi, lying deep in the trench, watched helplessly as his own soldiers fell one after another, his inner anger and despair nearly tearing him apart.
Suddenly, he saw a soldier from the Shanxi Militia half-squatting on the muddy ground, the rifle in his hands continuously spitting flames, aiming at the direction of his trench and carrying out suppressive fire.
Masami Takagi’s eyes bloodshot, he suddenly snatched a Type 38 rifle still smelling of gunpowder from the soldier beside him. The cold stock slammed into his shoulder; he firmly pressed the stock against his right shoulder and, through the cold sight, aligned the crosshairs on the shooting soldier.
“Bang! Bang! Bang!”
He fired several shots at that soldier almost with furious venting rage.
The Shanxi Militia soldier who had been half-squatting and firing stiffened suddenly, and the rifle in his hand clattered into the mud.
Several blood flowers bloomed instantly on his chest and abdomen, spreading rapidly under the rush of rainwater. He grunted, his body swayed twice, and finally he collapsed face-down into the cold mud, splashing a large area of filthy water, motionless.
“Damn Chinese!”
Masami Takagi cursed, and just as he was about to pull the bolt to reload the rifle, he suddenly felt a cold killing intent coming from his right side. He whipped his head around and saw a dark gun muzzle silently aimed at him at some point.
That cold metallic sensation seemed to carry the gaze of death. He didn’t even have time to see the opponent’s face clearly, only instinctively sensing a massive crisis.
Before he could react, he didn’t even manage half a squat when he saw the opponent’s muzzle flash with a blinding flame.
“Pfft!”
Masami Takagi only felt a violent, tearing pain explode in his chest, as if a hammer had smashed it hard.
The powerful impact instantly flipped him over.
His body involuntarily fell backward, the Type 38 rifle in his hand clattering into the mud with a crisp sound. He crashed heavily into the mud in the trench, cold muddy water instantly soaking his back.
The moment Masami Takagi fell in the trench, his consciousness began to blur, but his hearing became unusually sharp.
He heard dense machine gun fire, submachine gun bursts, and the deafening roars of Shanxi Militia soldiers by his ears.
Among these sounds were mixed faint but clear desperate wails and shrill screams in Japanese.
“The position has been breached…”
This was the last fuzzy thought in Masami Takagi’s mind.
His vision began to dim, his body growing heavier and heavier, until everything fell silent, leaving only the sound of rain and the continuous rumble of gunfire in the distance.
………..
Masami Takagi died… He lay in a damp and muddy trench, his chest torn open by bullets, his body gradually growing cold.
Normally, the death of a battalion commander would be a major event, but in such fierce combat, it seemed utterly insignificant.
Gunfire still echoed densely through the valley, soldiers’ battle cries and dying screams rising and falling, the scene like hell itself.
Crouching low and using the chaos for cover, Japanese army Superior Private Yuliang Nanda stumbled out of the frontline trench.
His body staggering, he plunged headlong into a huge crater.
The bottom of the crater was filled with turbid muddy water; his military boots sank in, and the cold mud instantly submerged his ankles, the biting chill spreading up his calves.
Since his whole body was already thoroughly soaked by the rain, his wet uniform clung to him, making his body exceptionally cold, shivering uncontrollably.
“Urgh… Ah…”
At that moment, he heard a faint and pained groan. Looking toward the front of the crater, he saw a Japanese wounded soldier, covered in mud, filth, and blood, weakly crawling toward him.
The wounded soldier’s face was ashen white, lips purple; every crawl left a scarlet blood trail in the mud.
Behind him, the triumphant shouts of Chinese soldiers and dense gunfire rang out from time to time, like the footsteps of the god of death approaching step by step.
Seeing that a comrade was still alive, a complex emotion flashed in Yuliang Nanda’s eyes.
Ignoring his own cold and fatigue, he quickly reached out, grabbed the wounded soldier’s cold arm, and with effort dragged him deeper into the crater, trying to hide him under the muddy slope at the edge.
However, after a quick check, his heart sank—this guy was beyond saving.
His left waist was completely shattered by a bullet, a fist-sized hole gruesome, blood gushing out like a spring from the wound, quickly dyeing the muddy water under the wounded soldier red under the cold rain.
Through that hideous wound, one could even clearly see pale intestines and some indistinct organ tissue trembling slightly in the rainwater.
The wounded soldier, convulsing from excessive blood loss, collapsed softly at Yuliang Nanda’s feet, his eyes gradually glazing over, mumbling faintly from his mouth, as if whispering something, but indistinct.
Yuliang Nanda set down the dying wounded soldier and cautiously poked half his head out, vigilantly scanning left, right, and ahead.
Everywhere he looked were dead Imperial soldiers and destroyed fortifications, flesh and mud mixed together, the air filled with the unique acrid stench of gunpowder, blood, and earth.
A despairing realization rose in his heart… perhaps he was the last living soldier in this company.
About fifty meters ahead, several Chinese soldiers in gray uniforms were hunched over, cautiously searching toward this side.
Whenever they passed a Japanese corpse, they would deftly raise their rifles, pointing the muzzles at the fallen dead, ready to fire.
Immediately after, two other Chinese soldiers with submachine guns would without hesitation to give a brief burst toward the dead or wounded on the ground.
Muzzles spitting flames, bullets precisely tearing into those lifeless bodies or finishing off the wounded who still clung to a thread of life in agonizing convulsions.
Their movements were skilled, cold, and efficient, like routine “cleanup” work, leaving no survivors.
The enemy was getting closer; the “da da” of machine guns, “bang” of rifles, and conversations of Chinese soldiers became exceptionally clear, as if right by his ear.
Yuliang Nanda tightly gripped the Type 38 rifle in his hands, soaked by rainwater, its cold barrel conveying the breath of death.
He knew the next one was him; apart from fighting to the death, he had no choice.
“Boom!”
At that moment, a shell whistled down beside the crater where Yuliang Nanda was, the massive explosion deafening, mud, debris, and smoke erupting skyward.
The powerful shockwave instantly upheaved his crater, dirt flying everywhere.
Not far away, a pine tree affected by the bomb shook violently with a creak, uprooted entirely; its massive trunk with branches crashed down heavily with a “boom,” covering most of the crater and completely blocking Yuliang Nanda’s view.
“No… I don’t want to die, I want to go back home to see my mother, I haven’t even gotten married yet!”
Yuliang Nanda curled up in the mud-soaked crater; even the cold muddy water couldn’t cool the intense desire for survival deep in his heart.
With trembling hands, he gradually moved the comrade’s corpse he had just dragged in to his side, then used all his strength to pull it over himself.
That cold corpse, carrying a faint bloody smell, became his only cover at that moment.
He buried his face deep between the corpse and the dirt, body curled into a ball, trying desperately to minimize his presence, as if that could evade the gaze of death.
At this moment, only one thought filled his mind, an intensely strong one that surpassed even fear… he wanted to live, to survive at any cost.
Time in the depths of the crater became extraordinarily long.
Yuliang Nanda felt himself curled in the cold, damp mud, his body numb. He didn’t know how much time had passed—maybe a minute, maybe a century.
The surrounding clamor seemed to gradually subside; gunfire was no longer so dense, battle cries fading into the distance, replaced by sporadic shots and occasional indistinct voices.
Holding his breath, through the tiny gaps in the fallen pine branches, he cautiously, for the first time, carefully observed the Chinese soldiers close at hand.
Those figures in gray uniforms moved casually across the battlefield, either prodding corpses on the ground with gun stocks or talking in low voices.
Their weapons gleamed coldly in the rain, especially those automatic rifles and submachine guns capable of continuous fire, which seemed particularly deadly in his eyes.
“If only I had a rifle that could fire continuously too…”
A trace of envy and unwillingness welled up involuntarily in Yuliang Nanda’s heart. He imagined himself wielding such a weapon that spat continuous flames, charging into the enemy ranks and cutting down those Chinese soldiers one by one. What power and satisfaction that would be!
However, this brief and beautiful “dream” of his was soon shattered by harsh reality.
A Chinese soldier carrying a gun walked idly past the crater where Yuliang Nanda hid.
His gaze casually glanced downward, and his brows furrowed almost imperceptibly. He saw that inside the crater, mostly covered by fallen pine branches, the muddy water was an abnormal red, strikingly vivid in the gray rainy day.
Even more alerting was that under that pile of branches seemed to be half a corpse-like shape; though blurry, on this battlefield littered with dead bodies, any anomaly was enough to raise suspicion.
The Chinese soldier didn’t think twice and didn’t even approach for a closer look.
He deftly pulled a grenade from his waist.
The dark green iron lump flipped in his hand; his index finger quickly hooked the pin and yanked it with a “click,” removing the safety pin. Without hesitation, he flung his arm, and the grenade arced low through the air, “whoosh,” landing precisely inside the branch-covered crater.
“Boom!”
With a massive blast, everything ended.
