Chapter 7: Perhaps We Should Decide When We Reach Demon City

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...The "little devils'" equipment is far too superior; by comparison, we look like a pack of beggars.

Their aircraft can drop terrifying bombs from the sky, and they can call in strikes with large-caliber heavy artillery, or even devastating shells from naval warships.

Above and below, there is nowhere to hide.

On the Songhu battlefield, many soldiers who traveled thousands of miles to fight often died halfway there without ever catching a glimpse of the enemy...

When clearing the battlefield, we often found it difficult to piece together a single complete corpse.

There were others whose bodies appeared perfectly intact, yet when lifted, frightening black blood would flow from their seven orifices; Wang Peng, that kid, said they had been shaken to death... (Excerpt from Hu Biao’s diary collection, "Hu Says")

"Damn it! That ten-year lifespan I traded away might as well have been fed to the dogs."

After cursing, Hu Biao turned and charged toward the hellish road.

He had only taken two steps when he stumbled and fell flat on his face. The gravel on the ground tore into his palms and knees, causing an immediate, sharp pain.

Yet, after scrambling back up, he kept stumbling forward.

There was no helping it. Perhaps the Japanese planes had other combat missions, and the attack on the Third Supplementary Company was merely a side objective—like swatting a fly while gathering firewood.

After diving and strafing three times and dropping a 100-kilogram bomb, they flew off triumphantly, yet they left behind a scene of absolute carnage.

Now, the company commander had been blown away, and the few remaining veterans had suffered heavy casualties.

If Hu Biao and his group continued to run, no one would notice them. Once they shed their uniforms, the world would be their oyster, wouldn't it?

But those people struggling and screaming in pools of blood were not just companions they had spent a few days with.

More importantly, they were their own ancestors, sharing the same bloodline. If Hu Biao ran away now, wouldn't he miss the critical window to save them, letting them bleed to death?

Confronted with such a possibility, how could he harden his heart and flee?

Torn between choices, after a brief moment of internal conflict, Hu Biao ultimately gave up his plan to escape and turned back to rescue his ancestors.

As for the ten years of his life he had just lost?

Wasted, so be it. A guy like him, who had already given up on life, had long prepared to endure minor illnesses and wait for death during major ones; he never harbored delusions of living to be eighty.

Seeing Hu Biao’s actions, Zhou Kun, Wang Peng, Gao Yi, and Zhang Wei exchanged glances, their faces filled with bitterness and frustration.

Then, cursing under their breath, they followed him, charging together toward the hellish road.

As they ran, they didn't even notice that the expressions on their faces had suddenly become lighter...

Reaching the dirt road first, Hu Biao rushed straight to the company commander, who was still alive and struggling on the ground.

However, a dead horse was pinning one of his legs, making it impossible for him to get up.

When Hu Biao reached the commander, he immediately tried to move the horse, but found it weighed four or five hundred kilograms. Even using all his strength, the horse wouldn't budge.

Turning his head, he saw Zhou Kun and the other three running over while swearing, and he quickly shouted:

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"Zhou Kun, Wang Peng, Zhang Wei, the three of you help me lift the horse! When we lift it, Gao Yi, you pull the commander out immediately."

The other four had no objections to Hu Biao's plan and nodded in agreement.

Zhang Wei and Zhou Kun cleverly picked up a thick stick and a Hanyang 88 rifle from the ground, sliding them under the horse to use as levers.

Otherwise, given their modern physiques, they might truly not have been able to lift the dead horse.

With the four of them working together, they finally lifted the heavy carcass. Gao Yi, grabbing the commander by the shoulders, pulled hard, and the commander was dragged out.

More accurately, only the upper half of the commander was dragged out.

Due to the previous strafing and bombing, the commander's waist had been nearly severed, connected only by a sliver of flesh.

As Gao Yi pulled, the commander’s body snapped in two at the waist, and a mass of tangled, colorful intestines spilled out.

Seeing this, Gao Yi was terrified and instinctively recoiled, dragging the commander further back.

Good grief! The poor commander—those intestines were dragged a long way across the ground, and one could even vaguely make out other internal organs.

There was a famous ancient torture called "waist chopping," and this was effectively the same thing.

Even in such a state, the commander hadn't died yet. His face was twisted in extreme agony, the veins on his hands bulging as he clawed bloody furrows into the dirt.

At the same time, he let out a shrill, desperate cry: "Quick... quick, give me a quick death."

Hu Biao and the others heard his plea, but they were powerless to grant it.

Having grown up in the peaceful environment of the modern era, these gig workers, bleached-haired youths, low-level office clerks, and fresh graduates had never seen such a sight.

Upon seeing the organs strewn across the ground, all five of them felt their stomachs churn violently.

Doubling over, they vomited uncontrollably, including Wang Peng, the retired veteran.

It was understandable. While PLA soldiers undergo rigorous training, most of them hadn't seen actual combat in years, and their training had never prepared them for such a scene.

By the time they regained a shred of their composure, the commander had already died of pure, agonizing shock.

******

That evening, the remaining personnel of the Third Supplementary Company set up a temporary camp in the peach orchard that Hu Biao and the others had planned to hide in.

After boiling some water and eating dry rations, everyone sat around small fires, none of them in the mood to speak.

By now, the Third Supplementary Company, which had started with 132 men from the Rugao region, was down to 71, with 21 of those being light or serious casualties.

In a single, brief air raid, they had suffered over fifty percent casualties without even seeing what the "little devils" looked like.

Even the company commander was dead, and the veterans had suffered heavy losses. The highest-ranking officer currently in the company was a second lieutenant, a platoon leader, and only six veterans remained.

This situation was only mitigated because Hu Biao and his group, after vomiting their guts out and regaining some strength, used their basic first-aid knowledge to bandage and stop the bleeding of the wounded. Otherwise, the death toll would have been even higher.

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After all, had they not intervened, many wounded men were planning to simply pack dirt into their bullet and shrapnel wounds before bandaging them.

After finishing the medical care, the survivors spent the rest of the afternoon, led by the platoon leader, clearing the battlefield.

They dug a shallow pit in the nearby wasteland and hurriedly buried those who had died in the air raid.

In their current state, the survivors had neither the energy nor the time to transport their fellow villagers back to Rugao to let their souls return home.

The tools for digging were limited, and the entire burial process was grueling.

The sight of limbs and scattered pieces of flesh made Hu Biao and the others vomit several more times.

But for the survivors of the Third Supplementary Company, what felt even more difficult was the psychological weight of lifting and burying those mangled corpses.

Especially for the five men from the modern era who had grown up in peace.

They had never realized so clearly how cheap and fragile life could be; their hatred for the "little devils" became deeper than ever before.

This state of mind left them heavy-hearted all night, none of them wanting to speak.

This lasted until the platoon leader shouted for everyone to get some sleep, as they had to hit the road at the crack of dawn. If they missed their deadline to arrive in Shanghai, they would face military justice.

Only then did the five of them react, exchanging secret glances, all conveying the same thought:

After an air raid, there were barely any veterans left; the sentries tonight would likely be lax. So, the question was: should they run?

Running would likely work, but the blow to the morale of the remaining men in the company would be catastrophic.

Regarding this, Zhou Kun hesitated for a moment before saying, in a voice only his companions could hear:

"How about we wait until we get to Shanghai to run?

We can escape into the Western concessions; there will still be a few years of safety there.

With the knowledge we have as modern people, we can surely make a fortune in that time. Then we can take a ship to North America or Switzerland—we’ll be able to dodge this damned war perfectly. Besides! Once we’ve made something of ourselves, we can find ways to provide the country with more supplies and equipment. Isn't that more useful than charging into battle to throw our lives away against the devils?"

It had to be said, Zhou Kun’s logic had some merit, but it was riddled with holes.

Since it was so difficult to escape even halfway there, once they reached the Shanghai battlefield, surrounded by even more comrades and Japanese soldiers, escaping would only be exponentially harder.

Yet, after hearing his words, the expressions on the others' faces eased slightly.

Perhaps they didn't want to run as much anymore—at least, not while the Third Supplementary Company was in such a dire state. But they needed to give themselves a reason not to run just yet.

Even if that reason wasn't particularly logical or convincing...

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