Chapter 122

Time flies; in January 1932, Modu, the cold wind carries the humidity of the Huangpu Jiang, weaving between the neon of the concessions and the dimness of the Chinese quarter. This city, hailed as the "Paris of the East," stands at a crossroads of destiny. The Japanese Navy Fleet circles outside Wusongkou like a school of sharks lying in wait, the battleships' smokestacks belching thick black plumes that darken the winter sky.

At 3 p. m. on January 28, inside the Japanese Marine Corps headquarters in Shanghai, Major General Yanze Xingyi held a telescope and, through a slit in the Louvered Window, surveyed the direction of Zhabei. A faint, grim smile crept across his deeply‑lined face, and he turned to the staff: "Gentlemen, after tonight Shanghai will crawl beneath the Empire's feet. Four hours—just four hours—and we will level Zhabei."

At the same time, in the Nineteenth Route Army General Headquarters, Jiang Guangnai and Cai Tingkai were studying a map of Modu spread out before them. The headquarters, set up in a private residence in Zhenru, was lit by a dim yellow glow, and the two generals wore expressions as hard as iron.

"The Japanese have already completed their assembly in Hongkou," Jiang Guangnai's finger traced the Japanese positions on the map, "It seems a battle tonight is unavoidable."

Cai Tingkai slammed the table hard, making the tea cups clatter: "Attack! Must attack! Even if Jinling orders no resistance, the Nineteenth Route Army must never become a slave of a fallen nation!"

At 11:30 p. m. on January 28, the Japanese Marine Corps, under cover of Armored Vehicles, advanced toward the various intersections of Zhabei like phantoms. Their iron tread struck the cold asphalt with a heart‑pounding clang. Suddenly three red Signal Flares rose in the sky, tearing a blood‑red wound in the night.

"Open fire!"

At Zhang Jun's command, the commander of the 6th Regiment of the 156th Brigade of the Nineteenth Route Army, gunfire erupted across the position. Bullets poured down like a downpour onto the Japanese ranks, producing a harsh metallic clang. The machine gun on the Japanese Armored Vehicle spat a tongue of fire, carving a lethal trajectory through the night.

"Demolition squad, advance!"

The soldiers clutched bundles of grenades, using street barricades and ruins for cover as they crawled toward the steel behemoth. A young soldier, struck by a machine‑gun burst as he neared the Armored Vehicle, used his last strength to roll under the vehicle, detonating the charge he carried. With a thunderous boom, the Armored Vehicle turned into a fireball.

At the Baoshan Lu position, company commander Wu Sun led his men in house‑to‑house fighting against the Japanese. When ammunition ran out they fought with bayonets; when bayonets broke they used rifle stocks; when stocks shattered they fought with their teeth.

On January 31, under the mediation of the British and American Consuls, the sides reached a three‑day cease‑fire agreement. As the smoke cleared, the battlefield lay in ruins. The Nineteenth Route Army's soldiers used this rare breathing space to repair fortifications and evacuate the wounded.

In the Zhenru headquarters, Jiang Guangnai received an Encrypted Telegram from Jinling. After reading it, his face darkened as he said to Cai Tingkai, "Jinling maintains that attitude, telling us to stop at a reasonable point."

Cai Tingkai let out a cold laugh: "Stop at a reasonable point? The Japanese have already reached our doorstep, and you still tell us to stop? Tell Jinling that the Nineteenth Route Army would rather die on the battlefield than retreat a single step!"

At that moment, a messenger brought intelligence: "The Japanese are reinforcing; the newly arrived Yecun Jisanlang will soon replace Yanze Xingyi."

"It seems the Japanese are getting serious," Jiang Guangnai inhaled deeply, "Broadcast a telegram to the whole nation; we must let forty‑million fellow countrymen know that Modu is still fighting!"

On the morning of February 1, the smoke briefly subsided. Along the Suzhou River, the British and American Consuls' carriage slowly rolled through the scarred streets. Inside the windows, diplomats stared gravely at the rescue teams bustling among the broken walls— the Red Cross Flag fluttered sharply in the cold wind, and medics searched the ruins for survivors.

The three‑day cease‑fire was, for the defenders, both a rare respite and a torturous wait. Jiang Guangnai stood at the entrance of the headquarters, watching the soldiers reinforce the fortifications, his brows tightly knit.

"Brothers, use the time to rest, but keep your guns in hand," Cai Tingkai inspected the forward positions, his voice hoarse yet firm. He saw a young soldier polishing his rifle with clumsy but earnest strokes, stepped forward and patted his shoulder: "Afraid?"

The soldier lifted his head, a faint smile breaking on his still‑youthful face: "Report to the commander, I'm afraid. But I hate even more."

In recent days, Modu's civilians have spontaneously formed support teams. Merchants in long robes, women in aprons, even scholars in suits and ties, braved stray bullets to bring food and medicine to the defenders. An elderly Chinese doctor set up a Temporary Infirmary on the front lines; his white beard was stained with blood from the wounded, yet his hands never ceased working.

On February 4, the moment the cease‑fire expired, Japanese artillery ripped through Shanghai's dawn again. This time, the newly appointed Zhidian Qianji deployed even greater firepower— the Heavy Artillery Group hurled shell after shell onto the defenders' positions, the blast wave overturning the hastily built shelters.

Near the Zhabei train station, a brutal tug‑of‑war erupted. The Japanese, leveraging their firepower advantage, broke through the outer defenses several times, but each advance was repelled by the defenders with grenades and close‑quarters combat. A machine‑gun position changed hands three times within an hour, the fallen's blood staining the ruins a dark crimson.

"Watch the artillery! Scatter!"

Seasoned veterans quickly ducked into the pre‑reinforced Anti‑Artillery Bunker, while the raw recruits were stunned by the deafening explosions. After a salvo, Japanese infantry, shielded by Tanks, launched a wave‑like charge. On the defenders' line, the Maxim Heavy Machine Gun roared again, its bullets sweeping the charging Japanese like scythes.

On the Zhabei front, the Japanese concentrated Heavy Artillery to batter the defenders' positions with fierce bombardment. Shells fell like rain, turning the streets into rubble. Nineteenth Route Army soldiers huddled in hastily dug Trench, enduring the deafening blasts.

"Hold steady! Wait until the enemy gets close before firing!"

When Japanese infantry, under tank cover, advanced to within a hundred meters, a dense volley of gunfire erupted on the defenders' line. Bullets shot from every angle, forming a net of death. The Japanese fell like cut wheat, yet kept surging forward.

That day, the Nineteenth Route Army repelled seven Japanese charges. As night fell, bodies littered the battlefield, and blood dyed the Suzhou River red.