Chapter 113: Defense

Rain curtains wove like a net, densely drumming on the army‑green tents, producing a continuous crackling sound. The kerosene lamp flickered in the center of the tent, casting the silhouettes of the General Officers onto the canvas, swaying with the flame.

Du Yuming's gaze slowly swept over each face—112th Regiment Commander Zhao Hengyang, whose scar stretching from the brow bone to the jaw on his left cheek looked especially fierce in the lamp light. Artillery commander Zheng Guodong, whose fingers had become thick and misshapen from years of loading shells. Engineer Battalion Commander Zhou Ru Hai, whose uniform cuffs were still stained with the mud left from this morning's terrain survey. These faces were so familiar, yet so resolute.

His thoughts suddenly drifted back to the Second Northern Expedition years ago. Then they were equally young, facing an enemy that seemed unbeatable. The most vivid memory was of a little soldier named Er Wa, only eighteen, whose smile showed two tiger teeth, and who always hummed a hometown tune while marching. Beneath the City wall of Jinan, confronting the enemy's fierce fire, Er Wa did not hesitate to block the blast opening with his body. Du Yuming still remembers that thin figure frozen into an eternal pose by the explosion's flash.

"All clear?" Du Yuming inhaled deeply, suppressing the surge of emotions within. The tent was filled with the damp smell of earth, sweat, and tobacco.

"Clear!" the others answered in unison, the crisp clack of boot heels briefly overpowering the rain outside the tent. That sound carried a steel‑like resolve, giving Du Yuming a jolt.

When the meeting adjourned, Song Xilian walked alone to the map, extending a finger to gently trace the location of Jinzhou. On the military map, Jinzhou was heavily encircled in red ink, surrounded by blue arrows indicating the Japanese attack directions.

Du Yuming stepped beside him, his palm pressing heavily on his shoulder, "Tell the brothers, defending Jinzhou is not just defending the land, but defending the tens of thousands of civilians behind us. Every inch of the front line backs our fathers and fellow countrymen."

Song Xilian nodded heavily, his Adam's apple moving up and down, yet said nothing. He turned, pulled back the canvas, and charged into the rain. The sound of horse hooves quickly faded into the distance, leaving deep and shallow hoofprints in the mud, soon filled again by the rain.

Du Yuming stood alone before the map, his gaze moving along the three red‑inked defensive lines: the Daling River line, the Yiwulu Mountain line, and the Jinzhou City defense, each appearing so thin. In his mind, countless refugees seemed to march along railways, riverways, and mountain paths, trudging toward survival. An old man leaned on a branch, women cradled crying infants, and youths pushed single‑wheel carts loaded with all their belongings, forming a tragic procession in the autumn rain.

"One month…" he muttered softly, his voice sounding especially heavy in the empty tent. He pulled from his chest a telegram that had become soft from sweat. It was the final order the chief had sent him before departing, the handwriting a bit blurred, yet every line was etched in his heart:

"Huaxia's burning soil knows no cowards! In the Fifth Army's lexicon, there is never a word for tears! Better to turn the Northeast into scorched earth, every inch of mountain and river a battlefield. We vow to make the Japanese Invaders' bones lie in ruins, each drop of blood repaying the blood debt, to avenge the grievance of Jinan."

At that moment, the kerosene lamp's flame flickered, casting his shadow onto the map, perfectly covering the entire Jinzhou area, like a silent barrier standing between the Japanese and the people of this land.

Outside the tent, the engineer troops had already begun overnight construction. The clatter of iron shovels against stone, the soldiers' low chants, and the steady autumn rain intertwined, sounding a tragic pre‑battle symphony.

"Report!" the messenger, drenched, rushed into the tent, handing over the latest intelligence, "The Japanese 2nd Division has completed its rest and is moving toward Liaoxi. At the same time, the Kwantung Army Headquarters has dispatched a heavy artillery regiment from Japan, including four 240‑mm howitzers."

Du Yuming took the report, the paper trembling slightly in his hand. The 240‑mm howitzers meant the Japanese artillery could blanket the entire depth of the defensive line. He walked to the tent's entrance and pulled back the canvas. On the distant horizon, the refugees' torches formed a winding long dragon, faintly visible in the autumn rain, like a dying giant dragon making its final struggle.

"Relay to all units," he said to the staff behind him, his voice calm yet unmistakably authoritative, "Complete the first round of fortification construction before dawn tomorrow. We will make every Trench a grave for the Japanese. Every bunker will become a hope for the refugees."

The staff quickly recorded the order, the pencil rustling on the paper.

At that moment, a commotion arose outside the tent. Du Yuming pulled back the canvas and saw a squad of soldiers escorting several hundred civilians toward the Headquarters. Leading them was an elderly man with white hair, leaning on a cane, his steps unsteady.

"General Du!" the elder shouted upon seeing Du Yuming, rushing a few steps forward, "We are villagers from outside Jinzhou City. We heard the little devils are about to attack; the fellow countrymen sent me to tell the General that we will not leave! We want to stay and help!"

Du Yuming was stunned. He saw behind the elder the emaciated villagers, their eyes flashing with resolve—farmers bearing iron shovels, women carrying vegetable baskets, and even half‑grown children.

"Fellow countryman, this is too dangerous…" Du Yuming began to persuade, but the elder shook his head firmly.

"General, our ancestors' graves are here, our fields are here, where else can we flee?" the elder's voice choked, "We cannot fight, but we can dig Trench, deliver food, tend to the wounded. Even if we die, we will die on our own land!"

Du Yuming felt his eyes grow hot. He scanned the unarmed civilians, then straightened his posture and gave the elder a solemn military salute.

"Zhou Hai!" he called to the Engineer Battalion Commander, "Assign these fellow countrymen to the Logistics Department, teach them to build Anti‑Artillery Bunkers!"

"Yes!"

The rain intensified, yet the entire defensive line was a scene of bustling activity. Soldiers and civilians worked side by side, iron shovels flinging, soil spraying. At regular intervals, a soldier would leap into a freshly dug Trench to test firing angles. Medics tallied medicines in makeshift tents, while signal troops strung telephone lines in the rain.

At three o'clock in the morning, Du Yuming, wearing a raincoat, inspected the positions. On the Daling River line, he saw a young soldier carefully pulling a photograph from his chest, wrapping it in oilcloth before slipping it into his breast pocket.

"How old are you?" Du Yuming asked.

The soldier startled, quickly standing at attention, "Report, Division Commander, nineteen years old!"

"Who else is at home?"

"There's an old mother in Qilu." The soldier's voice lowered, "If… please tell the Division Commander about my family; the son would not disgrace them."

Du Yuming was silent for a moment, then gave the soldier a firm pat on the shoulder, "You won't die; we will together drive the Japanese out of Huaxia."

Continuing forward, he saw on the artillery position Zheng Dong personally directing soldiers to set up camouflage. The several 75‑mm Mountain Guns were cleverly concealed among the trees, their barrels aimed toward the direction the Japanese might attack.

"Old Zheng, these treasures are now yours," Du Yuming said.

Zheng Guodong wiped the rain from his face, grinned, "Commander, rest assured, I'll make every shell count."

At the forward observation post, Du Yuming met Zhao Hengyang. The regimental commander famed for his bravery was holding a telescope, scanning the opposite bank; even in the deep night rain, he remained highly vigilant.

"Hengyang, this spot will be the first thrust," Du Yuming said.

Zhao Shoucheng lowered the telescope, his facial scar looking even more fierce in the night, "Division Commander, the entire 112th Regiment is ready to live and die with the position."

At four o'clock in the morning, the rain eased slightly. Du Yuming returned to the Headquarters and found a bowl of porridge still steaming on the table. The guard whispered, "It was brought by the fellow countrymen; they boiled it through the night, already tested for poison."

Du Yuming lifted the bowl, the warmth spreading from his palms through his whole body. He walked to the map, gazing at the dense markings. Behind these three defensive lines lay the lifeblood of countless families, the last hope of the Northeast. They would use their flesh and blood to build a living shield for their fellow countrymen.

"Report!" another messenger rushed in, "The Japanese Vanguard Unit has reached the east bank of the Daling River and is erecting a floating bridge!"

Du Yuming set the bowl down, straightened his uniform, "Order all units to take combat positions. Let the Japanese see what Huaxia soldiers' spirit is!"

Outside the tent, the rain softened, and a thin pale light appeared on the eastern horizon. On the positions, soldiers silently inspected their rifles, neatly arranging grenades along the Trench edge. A battle that would decide the lives of hundreds of thousands was about to sound at this dawn.

Du Yuming left the Headquarters, looking toward the distance. The first ray of sunlight pierced the clouds, falling on the soldiers' resolute faces and on the hopeful eyes within the refugee camp. He knew this would be the longest month of his life, yet perhaps the most meaningful.

"Huaxia soldiers," he murmured, "have never been cowards."

The sunlight finally broke through the dark clouds completely, bathing this battle‑scarred land.