Chapter 271: Yueyang Train Station

May 29, 1942, 23:00, Yueyang Train Station.

Moonlight is obscured by gunpowder smoke; between heaven and earth only firelight and a roar remain.

This hub that once daily swallowed thousands of tons of military supplies has now become a flesh‑grinding mill. The whine of bullets and the howl of shells intertwine into a death net that shrouds the whole city. The most central, tightest point of that net is the Yueyang Train Station.

The rails twist like serpents, the platform's broken stones soaked in dark red, the half‑collapsed waiting hall resembles the stripped skeleton of a giant beast, and death hides in every brick crevice.

This is Yueyang's artery, and also the gateway to hell.

Zhou Qingxiang's Third Division and the Japanese Army's Infantry 6th Regiment, like two raging beasts, have been tearing at this blood‑smeared bone repeatedly for an entire night.

From the moment they entered Yueyang, Zhou Qingxiang clearly understood that his target was the Yueyang Train Station.

Colonel Fujii Yoji, commander of the 6th Regiment, likewise knows the station's importance to Yueyang; the reinforcements behind him must be delivered by train to Yueyang.

Boom!

Another shell explodes on the station platform, sending shards of stone and wood scattering like buckshot.

A Third Division soldier who had just rushed onto the platform has half his head blown off by shrapnel, lets out a muffled groan and collapses, his body still convulsing; beside him the Hanyang rifle is jolted up by the blast wave and then crashes down heavily.

"Charge! Drive the Little Devil out!" Company Commander Wang Daniu's throat is completely hoarse; he swings a carbine, his eyes blood‑veined. Behind him, a Platoon of soldiers crouch, using the explosion's flash to launch another assault on the stationmaster's office occupied by the Japanese Army.

The stationmaster's office windows are sealed with brick and stone, leaving only a few firing slits. Machine Gun Bullets slash like the Grim Reaper's scythe, raking out wildly from within, cutting the charging soldiers down piece by piece. The soil is lifted by the bullets, mixed with fresh blood, turning into thick mud.

"Machine Gun! Suppress them!" Wang Daniu roars.

A Czech light machine gun is mounted on a tipped‑over luggage cart; its muzzle spews an angry tongue of fire, dueling with the Japanese Army's machine gun in the stationmaster's office. The flames flicker in the night, like two giant beasts confronting each other, gnawing at each other's lives in the most primal way.

Pulling, repeated pulling.

An hour ago, this was the Third Division's position.

Wang Daniu's comrades had just driven a squad of Japanese Army out of the ticket office with bayonets and Hand Grenades; before they could catch their breath, the Japanese Army's Grenade Launcher and mortar shells landed precisely, instantly turning the position into a living hell.

Those who survive can only drag their broken bodies back to the ruined warehouses opposite the railway.

Fujii Yoji, commander of the Japanese Army Infantry 6th Regiment, peers coldly at the scene through a telescope. His command post is in a bunker behind the station, the air thick with a mix of gunpowder smoke, blood and sweat. In the flickering candlelight his face looks especially grim.

"Report, Regiment Commander, the Chinese army's offensive is too fierce; the Eighth Company is about to break!" a staff officer runs in, drenched in sweat.

Fujii Yoji puts down the telescope, wipes the lenses with a white glove, his voice as cold as iron: "Tell them the station is the Emperor's territory; not a step back. Order them to launch a bayonet charge and retake the lost ground. Reinforcement Artillery will soon blanket the Chinese army's attack routes."

In the Little Devil's eyes, each one crazier than the last, there is only "order" and "execution". A soldier's life is merely a consumable for achieving tactical goals.

On the battlefield, the Third Division's assault again stalls. The stationmaster's solid brick building is like an unremovable nail, wedged in the station's core. Inside, the Japanese Army's machine gun points create intersecting fire, sealing off every approach.

"Company Commander… can't… can't get up!" a soldier crouches beside Wang Daniu, a bullet grazing his scalp, terrifying him into clinging to the ground.

Wang Daniu watches another brother's corpse being dragged back, his heart torn like a knife.

Time is running out; at dawn the Little Devil's shells will be far more accurate than theirs, the bullets also more precise, and then they will have nowhere to hide.

It is precisely because of the night that both sides are tangled together!

He grits his teeth and pulls the last Hand Grenade from his waist.

"Brothers!" his voice is not loud but unusually clear, "We have no time! No heavy artillery, no explosive packs, but we still have our lives!"

He looks around at the young, smoke‑stained faces beside him; some are crying, some laughing, some whose eyes already hold a void of death.

"The Little Devil treats us like meat paste; we must become their death talisman!" Wang Daniu pulls the safety pin from his Hand Grenade, the fuse sizzles, emitting blue smoke. "Anyone willing to go with me, pull the cord now! Together, we'll give the Little Devil a big gift!"

No one speaks, but one by one the soldiers silently pull their Hand Grenades from their waists. They utter no heroic vows; at the moment they pull the safety pins, a resolute, reborn‑from‑death light flashes in their eyes.

"For the country!"

Wang Daniu roars, the first to leap out from behind cover. He is like an enraged male lion, clutching the ticking Hand Grenade in his arms, charging toward the stationmaster's office spewing fire.

"For father and mother!"

"Kill!"

Dozens of soldiers follow closely, no longer seeking cover or crawling low, but standing upright, using the last speed of their lives to launch a suicidal charge. Each of them is a human bomb.

The Japanese Army's Machine Gunners are stunned; they have never seen such a frantic sight. Bullets strike them, erupting clouds of blood mist, yet they do not fall, or if they fall they keep crawling forward.

"Baka! What is this!" Fujii Yoji, seeing the horrific scene through his telescope, nearly drops the instrument to the ground.

Boom—!!!

A massive blast, far more shocking than any shell, erupts. Wang Daniu is the first to rush to the window, shoving his whole body and Hand Grenade into the firing slit. Then comes a second, a third… successive explosions detonate inside the stationmaster's office, ripping the Japanese Army, ammunition, and that frantic machine gun into fragments.

The huge shockwave hurls nearby soldiers into the air; the whole building shakes violently, the roof blown open with a massive hole, fire and thick smoke spewing out.

The world seems to stand still at that moment.

Gunfire and artillery cease temporarily, leaving only the crackle of burning flames and the wounded's anguished moans. The surviving Third Division soldiers stare blankly at the half‑collapsed building, tears mixing with the blood on their faces. They won this round, but at the cost of dozens of brothers' lives.

Fujii Yoji puts down the telescope, his complexion iron‑blue. He has lost a valuable machine‑gun squad, but what chills him more is the Chinese army's reckless, death‑defying resolve.

"Order," he inhales deeply, his voice trembling slightly, but more with aroused cruelty, "All Artillery, target the station, indiscriminate coverage! I will erase this place, together with those Chinese army corpses, from the earth!"

Fujii Yoji truly is a ruthless man!

The night deepens, yet the melee at Yueyang Train Station continues, gunfire still unceasing.