The Rise Of A Billionaire 1943-Chapter 181 - 194: Blood for Blood
How could this happen?The question echoed once again in Major Changjing’s mind.
He had confirmed it—the enemy was indeed Chinese. Anything else could be faked, but not language or appearance. It was just that their firepower was overwhelming! So overwhelming, in fact, that he felt as if he were dreaming. Not even the Australians had such firepower. These Chinese troops possessed firepower so intense it bordered on the insane—almost every man had a machine gun.
Under the dense hail of bullets, the Japanese advanced over the bodies of their own comrades. Despite the machine-gun fire, grenades, and exploding shells, they did not falter—but they simply could not break through, only leaving behind piles of corpses in vain.
Even so, they continued to shout "Banzai!" and launched another assault on the Chinese positions.
Just as they were about to reach the Chinese trenches, giving it their all, a sudden, violent explosion erupted. Those about to breach the line were swept away like wheat before a scythe.
As the smoke had yet to clear, screams and cries filled the air. The dead were riddled with holes, while the living writhed in pools of blood.
This was the closest they had ever gotten to the enemy positions—just twenty meters away—only to be wiped out by two heavy directional mines.
Two "Death’s Scythe" mines, 30,000 steel balls, rained down like a storm, enveloping the Japanese and turning their brave assault into a resolute death march.
Yet, even so, the Japanese soldiers, still shouting "Banzai!", continued to charge forward with desperate determination.
"Keep firing, give it everything you’ve got!" the veteran shouted, ordering the radio operator to call in artillery support. Soon, a barrage of supporting fire arrived.
Bursts from the STG44s and MG42s tore through the Japanese ranks. Artillery shells fell like rain, shaking the ground as if in an earthquake. Trees toppled, flames soared, and searing shrapnel screamed through the air.
With no way to retreat, Changjing Tadao could only continue pressing toward the Chinese positions. But by now, he was trapped, with no way forward or back.
Corpses. Hundreds, even thousands of bodies, nearly filled the entire battlefield. Every step the attacking Japanese took landed on the bodies of their own comrades. In front of the enemy positions, the Japanese soldiers blown down by the directional mines formed a wall of corpses—an insurmountable barrier.
Every attack only made the wall higher and thicker.
At last, Changjing Tadao gave up. He ordered his troops to retreat, but leaving was far harder than advancing.
The Chinese soldiers, having welcomed the Japanese so enthusiastically, were just as eager to see them off. But the eager detachments were not uniform in purpose. Where most units took prisoners and searched for intelligence, the Black Banner Company moved differently—like wolves given leave to feed.
Under the illumination of flares, the observer-directed artillery relentlessly pursued the Japanese soldiers trying to escape into the rainforest. The barrage of shells raining down from the sky formed a barrier of death, finally shattering Tadashio Jōi’s last shred of hope.
Without the master’s permission, there was no way to escape.
As dawn approached, the 455th Battalion’s night assault force was almost completely wiped out. Only a few machine guns continued to return sporadic fire, but after a salvo from the 120mm mortars, even those soon fell silent.
The third battalion, originally tasked with defending the position, immediately dispatched a company to mop up the remaining Japanese on the battlefield.
But what lay before them was no longer a battlefield—it was a slaughterhouse. Over a thousand corpses were scattered across the not-so-spacious ground. The stench of exploded entrails filled the air, and swarms of black flies clung to the bodies. As the soldiers approached, the flies rose in a buzzing cloud, revealing torn flesh and corpses beneath. When the soldiers moved on, the flies descended again, as if feasting on a pile of dung.
Occasionally, there were still some living men among them.
But in truth, these survivors were hardly different from the dead. Some had their intestines torn apart by bullets, others had lost limbs to explosions. Their bloody, mangled wounds were covered with flies. Yet even so, these army men had not given up. Some still clung to grenades, intent on taking their enemies with them.
When they saw the enemy approach, a wounded soldier would smash a grenade fuse against his helmet, clutch it in his hand, and, gasping for breath, wait for the explosion.
"Mama, mama..."With his cry, there was a loud "boom!" The grenade blast knocked a soldier to the ground. Seeing this, a veteran shouted:
"Don’t use bayonets—finish them off with a shot! Shoot them as soon as you see them..."
Suddenly, gunfire erupted across the battlefield. Some of the remaining enemy tried to resist, but how could their Type 99 rifles stand against the overwhelming firepower of the STG44? Their so-called resistance only added to the casualties. What was even more despairing for them was that sometimes, even after hitting an enemy in the chest, the man would simply slump, then, to everyone’s shock, rise again for one last, fatal shot.
But compared to resistance, there was far more despair. In the rainforest, those with limbs blown off or intestines trailing behind them were utterly hopeless. 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎
"Matsushita, Matsushita! Give me a stab! Please, end it for me..."A soldier with a mangled limb begged his comrade to end his suffering, all the while crying out for his loved ones.
"Mama, mama...""Give me some water, Matsui..."
Someone grabbed the prone Matsui, begging him for a drink. The man’s other arm had been blown off, the wound still spurting blood.
Who was he? His face was so bloody and mangled it was unrecognizable, and his voice so distorted it was impossible to tell. Probably someone I know, Matsui thought.
He shook his canteen—it was already empty. The spout was still a little wet, so he touched it to the soldier’s cracked lips. The man licked at it, gave a faint smile, and, tilting his head, died.
Standing in this sea of corpses, Matsui looked out over the battlefield—there were hardly any living men left. Those still alive were barely clinging to life.
Matsui, his expression dazed, gazed into the distance. In the morning light, he could just make out the silhouettes of hundreds of men approaching—the Chinese.
They came in groups. Some units moved methodically, inspecting bodies, collecting papers, taking prisoners. But at the head of a narrower track, the Black Banner Company strode differently: heads down, faces set, boots spattered with blood. They raised their rifles and, without ceremony, fired into the downed men as if ticking off a ledger. There was no shouting of victory, no prayer or rites—only the mechanical work of slaughter.
He was familiar with this scene—he had done the same, clearing battlefields, bayoneting Chinese and British soldiers. But now, he was the one being cleared away.
He felt for the senninbari in his breast pocket—a thousand-stitch belt his wife had given him before he left. Matsui remembered her parting words:
"Please, whatever you do, don’t get yourself killed!"
Looks like there’s no way I’ll survive this time.
Exhausted, Matsui slumped against a broken tree stump, his head drooping. In his mind’s eye, he kept seeing his wife’s tear-streaked face.
Emi... She’s been waiting for me to come home."Taro! Promise me you’ll come back alive—don’t get yourself killed!"
At that moment, Matsui saw two figures appear before him. He tried to grab his rifle, but saw a pair of military boots standing on it. The gleaming bayonet caught the sunlight. Afraid they would shoot, Matsui feebly raised his hands and spoke in Chinese:
"I... I surrender!"
Surrender! I surrender! Maybe I’ll survive after all!
Yes, they didn’t shoot at first.
The Black Banner man looked him over like one inspects an animal. For a heartbeat Matsui entertained hope—but then the man’s eyes were empty, and a grin creased his face not with joy but with the satisfaction of someone completing a task. He leaned in and spat:
"You speak Chinese?"
"Yes, yes, I surrender!"
As soon as he finished speaking, a bayonet slid in under the ribcage. Matsui’s breath left him in a wet, gurgling noise. He slumped, eyes glassy, the life gone from him before the pain had time to register.
Around them, similar scenes played out again and again. Captured men who had offered their surrender were executed with a brutal efficiency that had more in common with punishment than pragmatism. The Black Banner did not ask questions; they had been fed a different doctrine in training—one that turned grievance and propaganda into licence. To them, language was a verdict, and a few syllables could be a sentence.
"He spoke Chinese," one of them muttered later, almost contemplatively as he wiped blood from his hands. "Anyone who speaks Chinese owes us."
Sometimes, things were just that simple. Blood debts must be paid with blood.
