Chapter 77: See You At The Martyrs’ Shrine
The night was as dark as ink, permeating every brick seam of Nanjing, this city battered by endless torment.
On the pitted bluestone road bombed by shells, the leather boots of several security regiment soldiers crushed over the undried bloodstains, making sticky sounds. They hunched over like a group of marionettes with cut strings, the rubber tubes of their gas masks trembling nonstop with heavy breathing.
At a somewhat damaged breastwork of the trench, a soldier suddenly froze.
Through the lenses, he saw dust floating in the moonlight, just like the yellow-green poison gas during the day. His fingers unconsciously fiddled with the rifle trigger, gunpowder residue embedded in his nail crevices falling off rustlingly.
A sound of rubble rolling came from afar, and everyone immediately huddled into the shadows, their steel helmets clanging crisply against the broken walls with a “ding,” the sudden noise startling them into a collective shudder.
On the position, several ragged corpses lay scattered haphazardly on the ground, the moonlight plating their pale skin with a greenish glow.
A young soldier couldn’t take it anymore and suddenly removed his mask to dry heave, but was kicked hard by a veteran.
“You fucking don’t want to live, hurry up and put the mask back on!” the veteran cursed viciously.
On a street behind the church, more than ten Dodge trucks that Su Yaoyang had just redeemed a few hours ago lurked silently in the shadows, the full fuel tanks emitting a pungent smell.
Slender figures shuttled between the truck beds, Meng Shujuan’s braids stuck to her neck with sweat; she bit her lower lip as she pushed the stretcher onto the truck, the wounded trying hard to endure but still letting out low groans from inside the gas masks.
At that moment, the clatter of shell crates came from behind as a group of soldiers carried shell crates past the back of the trucks.
Zhang Zhihao stood at the roadside, hands on hips staring at the crates the soldiers were moving; when his gaze swept over those skull markings that looked especially ghastly in the moonlight, his Adam’s apple rolled involuntarily.
He took a deep breath and turned to Xiong Junfeng beside him: “Fumin… do you think these are really special shells? Is the regiment commander fooling us?”
“Fooling us?” Xiong Junfeng shook his head: “I don’t think so. The current situation is already like eggs on the brink of destruction; one misstep and the whole army is wiped out. What benefit does the regiment commander get from deceiving us?”
“True.” Zhang Zhihao thought about it and agreed; he gazed at the pitch-black night sky and sighed helplessly, then took a step forward and suddenly kicked an empty shell casing at his feet.
A “clang” was heard.
The metallic impact sound carried far in the night.
Everyone froze instantly; Yu Mo, who was carrying a stretcher, gripped so hard her knuckles turned white, only resuming after hearing Song Mei urge her softly.
Xiong Junfeng said in a hushed voice: “My brother Qiu Jie, be careful. If you alert the Japanese and cause the mission to fail, even dying nine times wouldn’t absolve us.”
After several hours of busy work, at three in the morning, the impatient Su Yaoyang finally received reports from all units that all troops were ready.
In the security regiment headquarters, six battalion commanders—Huang Guantao, Li Gaoyuan, Lu Shaobin, Hou Tianyou, Li Tao—gathered together, all looking gravely at Su Yaoyang who stood with hands behind his back by the window.
Since the September 18 Incident, the Japanese army had repeatedly disregarded international law and brazenly released poison gas on Chinese soil.
But the Chinese army not only couldn’t counterattack, they couldn’t even equip soldiers with basic gas masks, let alone launch a counterstrike.
If this operation today succeeded, it would be a first in history; no matter the effect, this troop formed less than a month ago would definitely gain international fame.
Although none of them knew how Su Yaoyang obtained this poison gas, out of trust in him, they still closely followed orders.
The entire regiment’s six infantry battalions and one artillery battalion, over three thousand men, all mobilized.
When the watch hands pointed to three-twenty, Su Yaoyang finally turned around and said to everyone: “Gentlemen… since September 18, the Japanese invaders have repeatedly released poison gas on our Chinese land to slaughter our troops and civilians.
However, due to our nation’s weakness, our army could do nothing against the Japanese atrocities except condemn them.”
At this point, Su Yaoyang’s voice suddenly rose, “However… as the old saying goes, what goes around comes around; heaven spares no one.
Today… it’s time for us to counterattack.
Ten minutes from now, at three-thirty, Artillery Battalion Heavy Artillery Company One and Company Two will begin shelling the opposing 6th Division, firing all five hundred stockpiled poison gas shells, letting the Japanese taste the pain we suffered before.
After the bombardment ends, 1st Battalion will lead as vanguard, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th Battalions as central force to escort the wounded and artillery battalion along Yuhua Terrace, Cotton Field, and Banqiao Town to break out.
We must break out of Nanjing and reach Cihu Town before dawn.
May the Father’s spirit in heaven bless our army to succeed.
Of course, many brothers may fall on the breakout path, or we might be surrounded by the Japanese and even annihilated.
But that’s fine; at least we tried, we fought; even if we die, so what?
I believe tonight’s action will leave a heavy mark in the history of the War of Resistance, and our descendants will remember us predecessors who sacrificed for victory.
I… have no regrets!
Gentlemen… see you at the Heroes’ Shrine!”
“Rustle…” Everyone stood straight and chorused: “See you at the Heroes’ Shrine!”
Dusk like iron enveloped the artillery position in lead-gray mist.
As the second hand passed three-thirty on the dial, gasps rose one after another from behind the gas masks.
The loader’s forearm muscles bulged, veins throbbing under the protective suit; when his fingertips touched the skull marking on the shell crate, his Adam’s apple rolled unconsciously.
The moment the 11.1 kg shell was lifted, a piercing chill seeped from the steel casing.
The cannon barrel gaped its black maw, emitting a metallic screech as it swallowed the shell. The observer crouching before the gun position suddenly gripped the rangefinder tight, knuckles turning bluish-white inside the leather gloves.
“Fire!”
Zhang Zhihao’s roar tore through the stagnant air; sixteen barrels shuddered simultaneously, the recoil kicking up dust that splattered the mask lenses, blurring vision in gray haze.
The tail hum of the first salvo still buzzed in their eardrums when the observing gunner suddenly froze.
In the binoculars, those shells trailing pale green smoke arced in parabolas, like a flock of diving will-o’-the-wisp crows toward the distance.
But before he could finish observing, the commander’s muffled curse came: “What the hell are you idiots standing around for? Hurry up and reload and keep firing.”
Amid the officers’ curses, the loaders hurriedly took shells from the ammo crates and repeated the earlier actions.
