Chapter 39: Officer Hu Returns Again

For modern people, the first reaction to being injured is always to rush to the hospital.

However, on the anti-Japanese battlefield, especially during the Battle of Shanghai, many seriously wounded brothers did not hold such a thought. It was not that they did not want to live or receive treatment; it was primarily because they knew one thing clearly: the front-line hospitals were currently overflowing with casualties, and the scarce medical staff were simply too overwhelmed to cope, nor did they have enough medicine to treat them. Under the blockade of the enemy’s aircraft and artillery, they could not even be transported to the rear.

These so-called front-line hospitals were better described as hell on earth, where many gathered just to wait for death. Rather than suffering through the ordeal, they would prefer to die on the front lines.

— Excerpt from "Hu Shuo," a collection of Hu Biao’s diaries —

After much busy work, Hu Biao basically finalized his procurement list, which ended up filling an entire sheet of paper. It was only when he prepared to head out on foot to make the purchases that he realized one thing: he seemed to be a bit short on cash. Although he had made a decent profit over the twenty-odd days he had been running his stall, earning 37,800 in total—a huge sum of money for him—his recent expenses had been heavy. The subletting fee for his shop alone had cost him 28,000. After accounting for document processing, a new sign, and various miscellaneous expenses, he was left with only 5,186.3 yuan.

"Forget it! I’ll just have to buy less of everything and stick to the cheaper stuff," Hu Biao told himself with a helpless sigh.

In the time that followed, Hu Biao spent a long while shopping. By the time he returned, laden with large and small bags, having hailed a ride-sharing car, it was already past 11:00 PM. After paying the fare, he had only about twenty yuan left to his name. Damn! He didn't even have enough funds left to purchase ingredients for the opening of the Yueyue Pavilion after his next return.

Fortunately, on the ride back, Hu Biao hit upon a desperate measure: pre-selling membership cards in the group chat—the kind where paying 88 yuan would grant 100 yuan worth of credit—which should be enough to cover the ingredient costs.

After his shopping spree, although he had spent almost all his money, the quality of the supplies was somewhat lacking. For instance, the original branded clothing, boots, and backpacks he had planned to buy were replaced with cheap knock-offs due to his budget. His bulletproof vest was swapped for a cheap stab-proof vest. Regardless, while the quantities might be lower, everything on the list was basically acquired. This outcome had a lot to do with the rush; had he known he would be traveling through time again, he could have saved more than half by shopping online.

Upon returning, Hu Biao made a large bowl of oil-splashed noodles to fill his stomach. Then, he picked up his phone and began cramming historical knowledge about the War of Resistance. That mysterious place might not allow for changes to the course of history, but Hu Biao still hoped that after going back, he could do something—even if it meant fewer people dying in each battle or taking down a few more Japanese soldiers, that would be excellent.

At 3:20 AM, Hu Biao, feeling dizzy and exhausted from reading, put down his phone. He packed everything into his backpack and tucked the Browning N1900 pistol—which he had secretly maintained with sewing machine oil after returning to the modern era—into his belt.

After finishing all this, he searched his memory for anything he might have forgotten. And indeed, there was something. Hu Biao fished a palm-sized notebook from under his pillow and put it in his pocket; inside the notebook, tucked alongside two black-and-white photos, were the diary entries he had written. Hu Biao hadn't had the habit of keeping a diary before, but it had appeared inexplicably after his last return.

Finally, as the time on his phone hit 3:36:30 AM, with only six seconds left before his transit to the anti-Japanese battlefield, Hu Biao, having confirmed nothing was left behind, said softly, "Wash your necks and wait, you little devils; the officer Hu who is here to send you on your way has returned." He didn't think for a moment that on the Shanghai battlefield, he was only a second lieutenant with a rank as insignificant as a speck of dust, hardly an "officer" at all.

After his bravado, Hu Biao, experiencing time travel in a fully conscious state for the first time, witnessed the magical scene of his body—starting from his legs—rapidly dissolving into dots of light.

******

When Hu Biao opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on a hospital bed, or rather, a door panel covered with a filthy sheet. Above him were roof tiles that had seen many years and were draped in spiderwebs. The air was thick with the pungent smell of disinfectant, a heavy scent of blood, and other indescribable odors; mixed together, they were absolute torture to the nose. The sounds reaching his ears were cries of "Doctor, come save me," "Where is my leg?", and the wails of those in agony.

All of this made Hu Biao quickly realize that he must be in a field hospital. As for whether he was still in Shanghai, how much time had passed since his last battle, or what his status was, he knew nothing. With these questions swirling in his mind, he sat up from the door-panel bed and turned to look around.

After sweeping his gaze across the area, Hu Biao couldn't help but frown.

First, as he had expected, this was indeed a field hospital. In terms of scale, it was at least several times larger than the field hospital he had taken wounded soldiers to when he first arrived in Nanxiang Town with the Third Supplementary Company. That hospital had been in a dire state, but the situation here seemed far worse. In a building resembling an ancestral hall or a Guandi Temple, wounded soldiers were packed tightly together. Many had severe injuries—missing limbs or half their faces blown away—covered only by crude bandages. A significant number of men were clearly on the verge of death, but the doctors and nurses, busy as they were, could not spare a moment to treat them, let alone perform surgery. Seeing such a hellish scene, Hu Biao felt an inexplicable sadness in his heart.

These wounded soldiers were all warriors who had risked their lives to fight the enemy; they did not deserve such treatment.

Second, the knock-off Type 07 training uniform Hu Biao had been wearing when he traveled was nowhere to be found; he had been changed into an old-fashioned cotton shirt. On the wall beside the bed, several nails had been driven in. Hanging from them were a second lieutenant's jacket, the precious Leica camera bag that had belonged to young Master Feng, and the large backpack he had been carrying when he traveled.

What pained Hu Biao the most was that the large backpack, which had been bulging before his arrival, now looked completely flat. He didn't know if the contents had been stolen or if some unknown issue had occurred during the transit. How much of the supplies he had prepared remained?

Given the situation, Hu Biao instinctively felt that a problem during the transit was the most likely cause. He reached out, took down the backpack, and opened it; his heart turned cold. Why? Because inside the flattened bag, there remained only two 500-gram cans of braised pork, five large bars of chocolate, a small bag containing 100 cultured pearls, a multi-tool knife, and the Browning pistol. There were also two packs of Sand cigarettes, two bottles of hemostatic powder, two boxes of oral penicillin, and three boxes of injectable penicillin powder. Everything else—the artificial diamonds, cephalosporins, and other miscellaneous items he had spent the most money on—had vanished.

All in all, at most twenty percent of his supplies had survived.

"Damn it! This life is impossible," Hu Biao thought, feeling a sudden urge to die as he looked at the meager supplies.

Just as Hu Biao was feeling extremely depressed, a voice filled with tears sounded in his ear: "Officer Hu, it’s been over a month, and you’ve finally woken up."

He turned toward the voice and saw Zhu Cong, the young logistics soldier. It was clear that the lad had suffered greatly during this time; his face, which had already been malnourished, was now so thin his chin was pointed, and his eye sockets were deeply sunken. Seeing this, Hu Biao wondered: had Zhu Cong brought him to the hospital, and was it only a few days since he had last traveled back? If so, his time-traveling experience was like a serial drama—the identity and plot from the last time continued upon his next arrival.

Based on these questions, Hu Biao quickly comforted Zhu Cong: "A man shouldn't be crying like this. Didn't I survive? Tell me quickly: what is the date, and how is the war against the Japanese progressing?"