Chapter 62: A Day of Blood (Part I)

...Whenever a battle with the Japanese devils dragged on, especially past the three-day mark, one would often see our brothers slumped across the trenches, their bodies hunched and movements distorted as they returned fire.

From a distance, they looked less like majestic soldiers of the military and more like mangy macaques.

Yet what could they do? These were afflictions born of sheer starvation. The enemy's ferocious artillery barrage had cut off all possibilities of resupply from the rear, naturally including food.

Put anyone through days of intense combat without a morsel to eat, and none could maintain their military bearing. To simply keep fighting was already the mark of the most resilient soldiers...

...An excerpt from Hu Biao's collected diaries, *Biao's Bullshit*...

Through the collaborative division of labor among Hu Biao and the other four, a side of pork was first sliced into long, thick slabs and dropped into a pot of cold water with scallions, ginger, Sichuan peppercorns, and cooking wine, then boiled for about 15 minutes.

Once the meat could be easily pierced with a single chopstick, it was lifted out and plunged into cold water to cool.

Then Uncle Bo, Black Star, and Huang Ah-di—the three culinary-inclined men—joined forces to slice these large slabs of meat into thin pieces, setting them aside.

Once the accompanying vegetables were washed and chopped, master chef Hu Biao stepped into action.

He heated the wok with a little oil, first stir-frying the pork slices until they rendered their fat, then added Pixian broad bean paste to release its fragrance, and finally tossed in the rest of the vegetables, stir-frying everything fiercely over a roaring fire.

At last, two massive buckets of fragrant double-cooked pork were complete.

The rice steaming alongside it was finished at the exact same moment.

Uncle Bo, a native-born Cantonese who had been waiting on the side, impatiently pinched off a large piece with his fingers and popped it into his mouth.

Even though the meat was scalding hot, and despite the fact that as a Cantonese man he wasn't accustomed to heavy spice, his face contorted slightly from the heat.

Whether it was the desperate craving of an empty stomach devoid of grease, sheer hunger, or some other reason entirely, Uncle Bo could swear:

Even though the best double-cooked pork called for collar butt or pork belly, the piece he had just snatched was actually a cut of tenderloin, hardly suited for this dish.

Yet this was still the most delicious double-cooked pork he had ever tasted in his life, without a single exception.

In fact, let alone Uncle Bo, even Hu Biao felt a wave of wonder after taking a bite—why was his double-cooked pork so exceptionally tasty today? Had he somehow performed beyond his usual standards?

Thus, a little past 5:00 AM, just as the sky was beginning to grow pale,

the brothers of the 3rd Company, who had just been roused from sleep, were pleasantly surprised to find that their breakfast today was actually white rice paired with double-cooked pork, as much as they wanted to eat.

Along with it came a bucket of broth floating with appetizing pools of fragrant oil.

Instantly, such piping hot, fiery delicacies not only awakened their palates but also chased away the profound drowsiness and exhaustion clinging to their bodies.

As the food touched their lips, bringing with it a flavor reminiscent of their distant homelands, their spirits lifted as well.

After polishing off two large bowls of rice and dishes in one breath, Flat-Head, an old veteran of the *Paoge* secret society, served himself another generous half-bowl of rice and a large ladle of double-cooked pork.

With a look of utter contentment, he muttered under his breath:

"Lord Almighty! Why is this double-cooked pork so damn delectable? I reckon only the Generalissimo himself gets to eat like this every single day."

Hearing this, Huang Ah-di, who had already consumed two large bowls and still hadn't had enough, suddenly lost his appetite.

He involuntarily thought back to his modern life, where he would look upon such grease-laden double-cooked pork with utter disdain out of a desire to lose weight.

To think that the very things he once spurned were the distant, unattainable dreams of these forebears.

Fortunately, he retained enough sense not to voice these sentiments, which would have dampened the spirits of the other time-travelers.

In the dawn light of this hearty feast, the brothers of the 3rd Company whispered, laughed, and chatted, everything appearing so peaceful and bright.

Yet none could know that this would be the 3rd Company's final, sole moment of leisure upon the Dunwu Temple trenches.

Because last night, to hold this position, the 3rd Company had made meticulous preparations. Many of these preparations drew upon experiences from future generations and were bound to deliver a massive, unpleasant surprise to the enemy.

More crucially, they harbored the ironclad determination and faith to hold the line and fight to the bitter end.

As for the Japanese side, besides their resolve to recapture the position at all costs,

they possessed vastly superior troop numbers, the powerful support of aircraft, artillery, and tanks, alongside a total lack of restraint or bottom lines.

In short, this daylight of October 14th was destined to be painted in blood for both sides...

******

At 5:39 AM, the Japanese began hoisting the observation balloons they had lowered the previous evening back into the sky one by one. The real-time tactical situation on the Songhu battlefield was once again laid bare to the enemy.

Ten minutes later, having finished their breakfast, Japanese artillerymen filed toward rows of cannons with their muzzles pointed high into the air.

At several field airfields and aboard enemy aircraft carriers such as the *Kaga*, *Ryujo*, and *Hosho*, airplanes were being refueled and loaded with bullets and aerial bombs.

Even within the Japanese departure trenches directly opposite Dunwu Temple, a certain company commander of the 1st Infantry Regiment gazed with burning eyes

at the warming-up tanks and his subordinates who were already prepared for the assault.

He was daydreaming: if he could personally present the corpse of that fellow in the Dunwu Temple trenches to the regimental commander, he would surely receive a generous reward.

Finally, as the clock struck six,

Hu Biao, who had just stuck a post-meal cigarette into his mouth—no, wait, a *pre-battle* cigarette—didn't even have time to fish out a match before his ears caught the shrill, piercing whistle tearing through the air.

Letting the cigarette drop from his lips, he roared at the top of his lungs: "Artillery barrage! Take cover!"

Roughly ten minutes later, amid a chorus of spitting and hacking,

Hu Biao coughed out a mouthful of dirt and sand, crawling out of the bomb shelter with a lingering sense of terror.

There was no helping it—comparisons only led to frustration, and circumstances varied wildly.

When he had defended Sector 7 previously, the artillery fire he endured had been nowhere near this ferocious.

The primary reason was that Sector 7 was merely a secondary flank position, whereas the enemy's main focus and firepower were directed toward the primary battlefield of Luodian.

The artillery they had faced back then consisted essentially of Type 92 infantry guns.

This time, however, not only was his 3rd Company holding the strategic linchpin of the Dunwu Temple defense line, but they were also anchoring its most critical central sector.

The volume and intensity of the enemy's firepower had escalated exponentially.

Just then, during the ten-minute bombardment, shells had rained down upon the position like a torrential downpour.

The 70mm Type 92 infantry guns were mere child's play in this barrage.

The 105mm field cannons formed the backbone, supplemented by a heavy presence of 150mm heavy artillery; the only thing missing was the shelling of 203mm naval guns.

Explosions fell like rain across the trenches, far outstripping the firepower of a Nationalist army artillery battalion comprising twelve 75mm mountain guns from their attack the previous night.

Throughout this ordeal, Hu Biao could do nothing trapped inside the bomb shelter.

His only recourse was to pray that the shelter they had constructed was sturdy enough to withstand a direct hit from a 105mm shell.

As for surviving a direct hit from a 150mm or even larger heavy artillery shell, that was something he dared not even imagine.

To take a direct hit from one of those meant simply resigning oneself to bad luck.

Fortunately, even when a shell of unknown caliber struck right above, the timber used to shore up and reinforce the bomb shelter emitted an ear-splitting screech,

and dirt and debris rained down like a storm from the ceiling, quickly coating him in grime until he looked as though he had been hauled straight out of a mud pit.

Ultimately, this shelter successfully weathered the storm.

Before the enemy artillery fire had completely died down, waiting only for it to thin out, Hu Biao crawled out of the shelter, fearing the Japanese would immediately seize the opportunity to charge.

Spitting out the remaining dirt from his mouth, he bellowed at the top of his lungs:

"3rd Company, prepare for combat! Also, check if any bomb shelters have collapsed and if anyone is still trapped inside!"

With that, Hu Biao raised the binoculars hanging around his neck and peered through the swirling dust out toward the trenches, searching for the enemy's latest movements...