Chapter 114: Blood and Flesh Battlefield

In the Liaoxi corridor in deep September, morning mist and gunpowder smoke intertwined and spread through the ravines of Yiwulu Mountain. Song Xilian lay in a temporary trench outside Jinzhou city, the frozen ground sending a biting chill through his uniform. Through his binoculars he saw the steel helmets of the Japanese Vanguard Unit forming a cold white sheet in the sunrise— the Kwantung Army's 2nd Division, twenty thousand strong, had unfolded an iron curtain‑like offensive. In the distance, the rumble of tank tracks over frozen soil traveled up the barrel, like a death drum beating in everyone's heads.

"Commander, the Japanese heavy artillery has started ranging!" The signalman's shout was instantly swallowed by the whistling of shells tearing through the air. The first test round landed a hundred meters behind the trench, frozen soil and shards of stone spraying like rain. A fresh recruit polishing his rifle was blown into the air by the blast wave, his young body torn apart, red‑white fragments splattering onto Song Xilian's uniform, warm and viscous.

Song Xilian held his binoculars steady: at the Japanese front line, thirty Type 89 Medium Tanks advanced in a standard wedge formation, their 57 mm Short Barrel Cannons glinting faintly in the sunrise. Behind the tanks, Japanese infantry wearing gas masks moved in a scattered line, bayonets of Type 38 rifles forming a moving steel forest. Farther away, the mouths of the Japanese Heavy Artillery Group still smoked; they were the independent field heavy artillery regiment equipped with the fourth‑year model 150 mm howitzer.

"Wait until they get within five hundred meters!" Song Xilian's voice was hoarse, his fingers digging deep into the frozen earth of the trench wall. He saw the left‑flank Northeast Army line collapsing— the newly uniformed peasants had no idea how to meet the steel torrent. A middle‑aged soldier brandishing a hoe charged the lead tank, but a hundred meters out a vehicle‑mounted machine gun shredded him into a sieve; his body convulsed on the frozen ground, blood staining a patch bright red.

"Anti‑tank guns, prepare!" Song Xilian roared. The only four German‑made 37 mm Anti‑tank Guns on the position slowly lifted their barrels, the crews anxiously crunching the firing data. These weapons from the Jinling Arms Factory were the brigade's most precious equipment; every shell was invaluable.

The Japanese Type 89 Tanks began to accelerate, their tracks grinding over icy ground with a harsh screech. The lead tank suddenly opened fire, shells exploding at the trench front and throwing frozen earth skyward. A machine‑gun nest was hit directly, the Maxim Heavy Machine Gun and its gunner shattered into fragments.

"Fire!"

All four anti‑tank guns roared together. Their shells struck the two leading tanks; one tank's tracks snapped and it spun in place. The other tanks kept advancing, their vehicle‑mounted Type 91 Machine Guns spitting flames, bullets pelting the defenders like rain.

"Demolition team! Go!" Song Xilian shouted hoarsely.

Dozens of soldiers clutching explosive charges leapt out of the trench. Using shell craters for cover, they crawled toward the steel beast. One after another they were swept by machine‑gun fire, blood drawing grotesque patterns on the frozen ground. A young soldier managed to get close to a tank, but as he lit the fuse he was hit by flank fire; the charge detonated in his hands, engulfing both him and the tank.

Japanese infantry seized the opportunity to push to within three hundred meters, a fire‑net of light and heavy machine guns suppressing the defenders. The characteristic "tat‑tat" of the Type 92 Heavy Machine Gun sounded like the grimace of death, bullets striking the trench edge and kicking up a spray of earth.

"Grenade!" Song Xilian personally grabbed a Gong County‑made hand grenade and hurled it with all his might.

The hand grenade that flew from the position exploded amid the Japanese scattered line, temporarily halting the assault. But the Japanese grenade throwers answered in kind; Type 91 hand grenades rained into the trench, shrieks of agony rising and falling.

At that critical moment, a familiar engine roar echoed from the sky. Three Northeast Army Hawk III fighters tore through the morning mist, diving and strafing the Japanese positions. 7.62 mm machine‑gun bullets cut bloody furrows through the Japanese scattered line, briefly disrupting the attack's rhythm.

"Artillery Company, fire rapidly!" Song Xilian seized the fighter and ordered the mortar battery hidden behind the hill to open fire.

Type 82 mortar shells arced into the Japanese follow‑up units; though their power was limited, they succeeded in halting the second wave. Seeing their tanks stripped of infantry cover, the Japanese began to withdraw and regroup.

The position briefly fell quiet, only the moans of the wounded and the crackle of burning tanks breaking the silence. Song Xilian looked around; the trench was littered with the bodies of fallen comrades. A young warrior lay dead still in a firing stance, his frozen fingers still resting on the trigger.

" tally the casualties and resupply ammunition," Song Xilian's voice was low, "they'll be back soon."

In the distance, the Japanese heavy artillery had already begun preparations for a new synchronized barrage. Yiwulu Mountain shivered under the shelling, as if mourning this battle‑scarred land. Yet every surviving soldier in the trench knew they had to hold fast, for behind them were tens of thousands of fellow countrymen moving toward the interior.

Three hours later, when the Japanese charge horn sounded again through the dense artillery roar, the tank column had already rolled over the front‑line Barbed Wire. The twisted wire snapped under the tracks with a harsh crack, like the wail of a torn defense line. At the instant Song Xilian bellowed "Fire," every rifle and machine gun on the position spewed flames, a barrage mowing down Japanese infantry like grass, yet only producing futile sparks against the tanks' armor.

"Anti‑tank gun! Aim for the tracks!" the artillery company commander rasped, taking the gun himself. The officer, a graduate of the seventh class of Huangpu, had sweat beading his forehead yet gripped the firing lever steadily. A 37 mm armor‑piercing shell whistled out, striking the lead tank's track joint with pinpoint accuracy. The steel monster halted abruptly, its tracks collapsing like a broken centipede. Yet the disabled tank instantly became a mobile Japanese stronghold; its turret spun rapidly, the vehicle‑mounted Type 91 Machine Gun raked the area, hot shells raining down like rain. The entire gun crew shivered violently amid the hail of fire; even as a shell struck the commander's chest, he persisted in trying to load a second round, until another bullet pierced his brow.

More Type 89 Tanks broke through the line, while the 57 mm Short Barrel Cannons kept pounding the defenders' positions. A tank barreled straight through the trench, lifting mud and bodies alike under its tracks. Song Xilian watched a young soldier clutching an explosive charge crawl along the flank and slip into the tank's belly. Just as the fuse was about to burn out, the tank suddenly reversed, its tracks dragging the skinny body inside. The explosion thudded mutedly, leaving only a charred scar on the tank's hull, while blood splashed from the track gaps, painting a grotesque picture on the frozen ground.

"Fall back to the second defensive line!" Song Xilian swung his sword to cut the telephone wire, and as he turned he was knocked to the ground by the blast wave of a nearby explosion. He struggled to his feet, saw the walls of Jinzhou behind him, the Northeast Army's flag flailing wildly under Japanese fire. The civilians who had sewn soldiers' cotton jackets the night before were now dragging the wounded into the city, the cries of the old and weak shredded to pieces by the relentless artillery.

Japanese infantry surged into the trench, stepping over their comrades' bodies, their gleaming bayonets flashing coldly in the smoke. Close‑quarters combat erupted in the mud; the Northeast Army soldiers found their Lia‑13 rifles too short compared to the Japanese Type 38, often being pierced by the enemy's bayonet before they could strike. Some discarded their rifles and smashed with the butt, others lunged, biting the Japanese throats with their teeth, finally rolling together with the enemy into water‑filled shell craters. A squad leader whose leg had been blown off pulled the last hand grenade, detonating it together with three charging Japanese, the splattered gore hanging on the trench wall.

Song Xilian's command sword swung amid the melee toward a Japanese throat, the blade catching a mouthful, his wrist grazed by stray fire, warm blood dripping down the hilt into the mud. His guards fell one after another, until only the messenger Xiao Chen remained, using his body to shield him from incoming fire. Meanwhile Japanese follow‑up troops kept pouring in, the defenders' ammunition was nearly exhausted, and the entire line had reached the brink of collapse.