Chapter Thirty: A Brave Heart (Part Five)

Huang Jingsheng stared unblinkingly at the approaching prisoners, signaling with his left hand for everyone behind him to raise their guns. "Closer, closer, even closer," he murmured, as silent and steadfast as a reef, quietly savoring the calm before the storm.

"Brothers, charge with me! First Battalion, provide covering fire!" Suddenly, Huang Jingsheng roared, charging forward like a fierce tiger. Luo Hanya, Wang Yibo, and Li Song followed closely behind, with the entire Guard and Special Operations Platoons right after.

"Get down! Get down! Do you really want to die?" Huang Jingsheng shouted as he ran, clutching a Thompson submachine gun.

Only then did the prisoners ahead seem to awaken from a dream. Like a row of dominoes, they fell flat onto the ground in perfect order. "Dada-da!" Even before their bodies hit the earth, the enemy had already opened fire.

"Japanese devils, damn you!" Huang Jingsheng bellowed. As if responding to a secret signal, an entire volley of mortar shells soared from the trenches behind him; the 598th Regiment had kept a stash of mortars hidden away!

"Special Operations Platoon, suppress the enemy machine guns! Guard Platoon, come with me to rescue the prisoners!" Huang Jingsheng was the first to reach the captives, drawing his knife to cut their bonds. In the hail of gunfire and thunderous explosions, Luo Hanya suddenly heard Wang Yibo’s agonized scream: "There are enemy infiltrators among us—fall back, brothers!"

Before Wang Yibo could finish, a small knife stabbed into his abdomen. "You think you can kill me, you little devil? I'll take you with me!" Wang Yibo’s eyes blazed red as his fighting spirit surged in the face of death. He yanked the grenade from his belt, preparing to lunge at the enemy, determined to die together.

"What the hell are you doing?" Luo Hanya shouted, riddling the infiltrator who had stabbed Wang Yibo with bullets from his Thompson. Glaring at the still-dazed Wang Yibo, he cursed, "Idiot! Throw it, now!"

Snapping back to his senses, Wang Yibo hurled the grenade, only to realize in embarrassment that it landed on a fellow prisoner who had just escaped back to the 598th Regiment.

"Boom!" The grenade exploded, and so did the captive—his detonation was even more violent than the grenade's.

"Be careful! The enemy infiltrators among us are all rigged with explosives!" a brave Chinese soldier among the prisoners shouted with all his might.

No sooner had he spoken than a dagger flashed behind him, ending his young life with a swift stroke.

Almost simultaneously, dozens of prisoners went berserk, charging at the soldiers of the 598th Regiment.

"Not a chance!" Huang Jingsheng, wild-eyed, stood up and fired his submachine gun in a desperate sweep. The brothers of the Special Operations and Guard Platoons followed his lead. Among the prisoners, the courageous threw themselves at the frenzied infiltrators, grappling them, choking them, using teeth, nails, and skulls as weapons. They endured stabs and slashes, buying precious time for their comrades.

But most of the prisoners could only stare blankly, watching the desperate struggle, watching their comrades slaughtered, and, in their panic, some even joined the enemy's charge.

"Cowardly weaklings! I knew we should have shot them all!" Luo Hanya handed the wounded Wang Yibo to Li Song, his eyes bloodshot with rage. He unleashed his demonic transformation, standing like a war god in the storm of bullets, unfazed as they pierced his body, firing back with wild abandon.

The Thompson soon ran dry, so Luo Hanya grabbed a fallen comrade’s weapon and kept shooting. After a brutal exchange, the enemy finally retreated.

Huang Jingsheng gazed at the few dozen survivors still standing, his expression blank. He glanced at the bodies of the soldiers who had shielded him with their own, then at the hundred or so prisoners who had survived by hitting the dirt, his face a complex mix of joy and sorrow.

Yes, he had saved over a hundred prisoners’ lives—but he had lost over a hundred of his best men from the Guard and Special Operations Platoons. Trading the elite for men who only knew how to run and didn’t even dare fight to the end—a bitter, devastating loss.

Luo Hanya, reverting from his demonic state, found that the bullets in his body had been forced out without his noticing. He marveled at the power of his transformation, wondering what such a mighty ability truly cost. The answer came quickly: his spiritual energy was nearly depleted.

Spirit Power: 173/1000. In less than two minutes, his reserves had almost run dry. Luo Hanya wiped the cold sweat from his brow, relieved the enemy had withdrawn early; had they stayed, he would have died without even knowing how. He worried most about the bony wings that sprouted during his transformation—thankfully, his backpack had concealed them, and they weren’t too large. If discovered, he would never be able to remain with the 598th Regiment.

Li Song gave the absent-minded Luo Hanya a pat, thinking he was worried about Wang Yibo’s injury. Li Song smiled, "Don’t worry, Wang Yibo’s fine—just a minor wound."

Luo Hanya managed a smile in return. "That guy always keeps us on our toes. As long as he’s alright, that’s all that matters."

Back in the trench, Huang Jingsheng, unexpectedly, did not immediately lecture the group. He was silent for a long thirty seconds before straightening his back and speaking loudly, "Many of you may think what I just did wasn’t worth it—and you’re right. In terms of combat strength, we lost more than three times what we saved."

The rescued prisoners hung their heads in shame. The original soldiers, especially those of the Guard and Special Operations Platoons, clenched their fists and gritted their teeth, grief and anger plain on their faces.

"But today, I, Huang Jingsheng, kept my promise! I said that even if I died on this battlefield, I would never abandon a single brother, nor would I let you massacre your captured comrades!" Huang Jingsheng held his head high, every word firm and resolute.

The soldiers fell silent at his words. Quietly, Huang Jingsheng looked at his brothers-in-arms, overwhelmed with emotion.

"Commander, it’s not your fault—it’s ours! We were cowards, less than animals."

"Yes, it's our fault. If we’d fought the Japanese, so many brothers wouldn’t have died trying to save us."

"Blame us, not the commander—none of this is his responsibility."

One man spoke up, and the rescued prisoners all began to admit their guilt. Some even fell to their knees, bowing their heads to the others in remorse.

"Get up! If you’re back, you’re still our brothers. Stop crying like women!"

"Are you men or not? Get up, damn it! If you really regret it, pick up a gun and kill the enemy—don’t kneel here like cowards!"

"Alright, enough! We forgive you. We never blamed the commander. Get up—prepare yourselves, the enemy will be back soon!"

Hearts are flesh and blood, after all. Seeing the rescued prisoners sincerely repent, the other soldiers let go of their anger, helping them up, preparing for the next assault.

Tears streamed down Huang Jingsheng’s face as he watched his men regain their trust and unity. His booming voice returned, "The Japanese will be here any moment! Stay sharp and get ready to avenge our fallen brothers!"

"Machine gunners! Grenadiers! Get in position, now!"

"What are you standing there for? Dogzi, I’m talking to you—move!"

In the trenches, Huang Jingsheng’s orders rattled out like machine-gun fire, punctuated by the men’s laughter. In that moment, everyone was united, joking like old friends as they awaited the next wave.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!" Another barrage of shells rained down, but this time, something was different—amid the explosions, yellow gas began to spread. "Hold your breath! Cover your faces with your clothes—the enemy is using gas shells!" An experienced veteran recognized the infamous poison gas instantly.

Fortunately, the tropical monsoon winds blowing across Burma kept the gas from taking full effect.

Luo Hanya had barely let out a sigh of relief when another veteran shouted, "Hit the dirt, enemy tanks are firing!"

As he watched Japanese infantry advance behind tanks and armored vehicles, Luo Hanya realized that General Takeuchi Hiroshi of the Fifty-Fifth Division was dead set on capturing Tonggu City. He recalled from his studies that Takeuchi, later tried as a Class A war criminal, had been hailed by the Japanese military as the "Demon Blade Muramasa," a master of offensive warfare, and his Fifty-Fifth Division was famed as the "Mighty" Division.

This, Luo Hanya realized, was the heart of their problem: intelligence. The British had reported that only the Fifty-Fifth and Eighteenth Divisions were in Burma, which is why the Expeditionary Army had been ordered to use the 200th Division as bait at the Battle of Tonggu, hoping to wipe out the Japanese Fifty-Fifth Division in one blow.

But the truth was different: Japan’s Dragon Division, the Fifty-Sixth, supported by air and armored units, was racing toward Lashio, aiming to annihilate China’s 100,000-strong Expeditionary Army. But knowing this, what could he do? A bitter smile crept onto Luo Hanya’s face. He understood how much seniority mattered in the Chinese army. If he’d entered this scenario as a veteran Whampoa officer—a staff or higher—perhaps his suggestions would be heeded. But as a mere Guard Platoon leader, what could he do? All he could manage was to hold the city, kill a few more enemy soldiers, and do his part.