Chapter 108: Northeast Armory 2

The next day on the outskirts of Shenyang, the cold frost had already covered the withered yellow sorghum fields. Du and Ming stood on the modified armored train's command tower, their fingers reddened by cold gripping the binoculars. Through the lenses, the South Manchuria Railway looked like an icy iron snake, winding toward the horizon's edge.

Behind him, the Fifth Army's most elite armored units had quietly taken positions. Though the Tanks were numerous, most were old models purchased years earlier, and facing the Japanese's advanced equipment, the soldiers knew full well this would be a bloody battle. The Tank crews used withered grass and canvas to carefully camouflage the vehicles; the young loader Xiao Li was performing a final check of the shells, his fingers trembling slightly from the cold.

"Afraid?" Driver Lao Zhang handed over a cigarette.

Xiao Li shook his head, then nodded: "Afraid, but even more hateful."

In the morning mist, the signalman's footsteps were unusually clear: "Report Division Commander, all assault clusters have entered their designated positions, Infantry 3rd Regiment has completed the flank highland deployment."

Du and Ming glanced at the Pocket Watch, its hour hand pointing to 5:30 a. m. According to intelligence, the Japanese 2nd Division's main force and the Railway Guard Unit, about 8,000 men, were advancing along the railway, their target straight for Sujiatun on Shenyang's outskirts. He recalled the German Advisor's parting instruction, the words "Use their tactics to strike their soft spot" echoing in his ears.

From afar came the boom of a steam locomotive, mixed with the raspy voices of Japanese soldiers singing a marching song. The lead armored train slowly entered view, followed by a boxcar packed with infantry. The Japanese soldiers were clearly unguarded; some even leaned out, joking, their weapons casually propped against the carriage wall.

The moment the Vanguard Unit fully entered the ambush zone, Du and Ming inhaled deeply, then swung his arm forcefully: "Fire!"

Three red Signal Flares streaked across the sky, trailing flames. In an instant, the silent sorghum fields erupted with deafening engine booms. Hundreds of Tanks started simultaneously, the camouflaging canvas torn by the tracks, a torrent of steel surging out like a Breaching the Dike. Lao Zhang's lead Tank fired first, its shells striking the Japanese armored train's boiler with precision.

"For the brothers who fell in Jinan!" he roared inside the tank.

The explosion sent white steam soaring skyward, accompanied by the Japanese soldiers' mournful screams. The Japanese in the trailing carriages scrambled to jump out, only to be shredded by the tracks. The Tank crews pressed forward with bloodshot eyes; many of them had lost relatives in the Jinan Tragedy, and today they finally reached the moment of vengeance.

"Infantry, follow up! Clean out the remaining enemies!" Du and Ming saw through the binoculars that the infantry were charging down from the high ground. Most of these soldiers had been tempered by the Battle of Jinan, and now the bayonets in their hands glinted coldly in the dawn.

Company Sergeant Wang Xi charged at the front, the Shandong man who had personally witnessed the Japanese atrocities in Jinan. He darted agilely among the shell holes, his light machine gun spitting flames. When he saw a Japanese Heavy Machine Gun position preparing a counterattack, he unhesitatingly snapped the grenade safety.

"Brothers, follow me up!" he roared, hurling three grenades in succession; amid the explosions, the Japanese machine gun fell silent. Yet just as he prepared to charge again, a bullet struck his chest.

"Company Sergeant!" the duty soldier shouted, trying to rush over.

"Don't worry about me! Keep firing!" Wang Dayong struggled, leaning against the tank tracks, using his last strength to replace the magazine, "Tell my mother… the son didn't disgrace her…"

Such scenes were common on the battlefield. A young warrior of only 19, when a Tank's tracks malfunctioned, resolutely grabbed a bundle of explosives and charged the Japanese anti‑tank artillery position, using his youthful life to carve a path for his comrades. Among his belongings was only a photograph of his mother and half a piece of dry rations he hadn't had time to eat.

Just as the ground combat reached a fever pitch, the sky echoed with familiar engine booms. The Northeast Army's fighter formation finally arrived; these aging Hawk III fighters looked outmatched before the Japanese Type 91, yet the pilots showed no fear.

Aviation Brigade Commander Chen Ruiming was the first to dive down; his aircraft had taken multiple hits, yet he still clutched a Japanese plane tightly.

"For Shenyang's fathers and mothers!" he shouted over the radio, simultaneously pressing the fire button. The Japanese plane exploded on cue, but Chen Ruiming's aircraft was also struck by fragments, beginning an uncontrolled descent.

"Brigade Commander, parachute!" the wingman's pilot called anxiously.

Chen Ruiming looked at his comrades still locked in fierce combat on the ground, resolutely leveling his nose and crashing toward the Japanese's most concentrated area: "Brothers, I'm going ahead!"

The bomber swarm braved dense anti‑aircraft fire to bomb the Japanese rear. After one bomber was hit, its pilot gave up the chance to parachute, persisting in dropping bombs onto the Japanese ammunition dump, perishing together with the enemy.

After seven hours of fierce fighting, the Japanese began to retreat. Du and Ming stepped out of the command vehicle, the battlefield before them suffocating. Burning Tank wreckage intertwined with the corpses of fallen soldiers; a dead machine gunner still clutched his firing stance even in death.

The medics were scouring the battlefield for survivors. When they found Wang Xi, they discovered a wounded young warrior still pinned beneath him—at the very last moment of his life, he had used his own body to shield his comrade from shrapnel.

"Division Commander, preliminary count shows our casualties exceed 5,000," the staff officer's voice was low, "but the Japanese have paid at least 6,000 lives; their offensive capability has been severely crippled."

Du and Ming silently approached a destroyed Tank; Driver Lao Zhang and the entire crew had perished at their battle posts. Inside the turret, someone had written in chalk: "The body is dead, yet the spirit remains; the soul is resolute, becoming a heroic ghost."

As the sun set, its afterglow bathed the battlefield. The soldiers silently gathered their comrades' bodies; someone softly sang a marching song, and gradually more joined. The singing drifted through the smoke, lingering long in the blood‑red dusk.

Du and Ming pulled out a notebook and heavily wrote: "That day, the iron armor shattered, the heavens wept, yet our army's soul remains unextinguished." He knew this was only the beginning; harsher battles lay ahead. But as long as a single soldier still stands, this battle flag will never fall.

The cold wind blew, stirring the scorched earth of the positions. And tomorrow, the sun will rise as usual.