201: Chapter 111 Coastal Defense Meat Grinder

January 15, 1908, at 5:40 AM, a layer of grayish-white mist floated over the sea of Sansha Bay, as thick as unmelting grease, completely blurring the boundary between the sky and the sea. The mist flowed slowly along the water's surface, its edges torn by the sea breeze into fine, shredded strips, only to be replenished by the newly surging mist, resembling an ink wash painting that was being repeatedly painted and covered over. The sound of distant surges was dull and rhythmic, beating against the reefs and producing a low "gudong" sound, one after another, like some giant creature turning over in a light sleep, a muffled sigh overflowing from its chest. The color of the seawater near the shore was dark, shimmering with a turbid yellowish-green after the sediment was stirred up, and a line of white occasionally flashed on the wave crests, soon swallowed by the gray daylight. Several seagulls squatted on the beach with their necks retracted, their feathers blown into messy rolls by the sea breeze, occasionally pecking at the sand grains, then vigilantly raising their heads to look around, their claws leaving tiny claw marks on the moist sand surface, which were smoothed away when the tide surged in.

Further in the distance, several fishing boats were crookedly stranded on the shallows, the fishing nets on the masts were torn to pieces, and most of the paint on the planks had peeled off, revealing the grayish-white wood grain beneath. The bows were half-buried in the sand, resembling long-forgotten skeletons, with a few rib-like planks protruding from the sand layer, their fractured ends already washed smooth and rounded by the seawater. Several broken cables were half-buried in the sand, tangled into a ball by the seaweed brought up by the high tide; the seaweed had dried and turned white, trembling slightly in the wind and making a dry, rustling sound, like some tiny and continuous whisper.

About three hundred meters behind this seemingly calm coastline, a three-dimensional defense fortification stretching nearly ten kilometers was hidden. That was a line of death meticulously constructed by Li Ling over more than half a year, consuming countless amounts of steel and cement. Beneath those low mounds covered with vegetation and soil layers were pillboxes poured with reinforced concrete. The concrete wall of each pillbox was two meters thick, and the soil covering on top exceeded one meter, allowing them to hard-carry two rounds of direct fire from 305mm naval guns without collapsing as a whole. The space inside the pillboxes was narrow and oppressive, where an adult standing straight would almost hit the overhead beams, and dense water droplets condensed on the walls, emitting a dim luster under the dim light. The firing slits were tightly covered with camouflage nets and withered grass, and a few clusters of withered reed tassels were jammed into the mesh, trembling slightly in the airflow, making them indistinguishable from ordinary coastal hills when viewed from the sea. Between the pillboxes, every one hundred and fifty meters, there was a machine gun nest reinforced with sandbags and logs. The gaps in the sandbags were filled with gravel, making it difficult even for bullets to penetrate when fired upon, and the cross-sections of the logs had presented a layer of dark gray weathered skin due to long-term exposure to the sun and rain, resembling a layer of rough calluses.

The minefields were even more continuous, with six composite minefields buried in the transition zone between the beach and the bushes, each with its own trigger mechanism and lethal radius. The outermost layer consisted of tripwire directional mines, where the tripwires were made of fishing lines, tightly stretched at a height of one palm above the ground, making them almost invisible in the morning light; only by getting very close could one discover the hair-thin transparent wire, upon which a few tiny dewdrops hung. The middle section consisted of bounding mines, with spring-trigger devices buried under the semi-frozen sand. Once someone stepped on them, the entire mine would be popped up to waist height to explode, and shrapnel would be splashed down from above in an umbrella shape, with a coverage range exceeding ten meters. Near the edge of the fortifications were anti-personnel mines, specifically targeting soldiers attempting to crawl forward, with extremely low trigger pressure, where a single one could completely tear a person's lower legs apart from below the knees. Between each minefield, precisely calculated gaps were left, but those gaps had long been covered by the firepower of machine guns and Mortars—anyone attempting to pass through the gaps would become a live target the moment they stepped onto the beach.

About five hundred meters behind this defense line, thirty-six 105mm howitzers were arranged in an arc. The gun positions were meticulously camouflaged, looking like a soil slope covered with bushes from one hundred meters away. Even the barrels were painted with the earth-yellow color matching the withered grass, and the soil beneath the support legs of the gun mounts was carefully patted flat, with even an extra stem of grass shaved off with a bayonet. Two kilometers further back was the position of twelve 150mm heavy cannons—that was the new equipment just delivered by the Production Base at the end of last year, with barrel lengths exceeding six meters, each shell weighing up to forty-five kilograms, capable of tearing a ten-thousand-ton transport ship into two halves from the waterline twenty kilometers away. The barrels of these cannons had undergone precision turning and heat treatment before leaving the factory, with the machining accuracy of the rifling reaching the micron level, and the muzzle brake resembling an inverted metal morning glory, with dozens of exhaust holes of the same diameter distributed on its surface. The position commander, Zhou Dayong, was forty-five years old this year, with a face full of sideburns, eyes as sharp as an eagle, calluses on his hands thick enough to scratch marks on sandpaper, and grayish-white powder embedded in the seams of his nails that could not be washed off. He was squatting in the bunker of the No. 1 cannon, clutching a silver-cased pocket watch in his hand, staring at the second hand jumping grid by grid, his lips tightly pursed and saying nothing. The pocket watch was a trophy he captured during the Russo-Japanese War, with a shallow bullet mark on the case, and the strap was later modified by himself using a piece of old leather belt, its edges already polished to a shine, yet the hands still moved precisely. His fingers were slightly stiff from prolonged exposure to the cold wind, the skin at his knuckles chapped into several small cracks, and blood oozed into dark red dots, but he did not even rub them, just patiently waiting. Outside the bunker, a signalman holding a field telephone sat on an ammunition box, the white vapor exhaled condensing into a small fog before him and quickly dissipating. The outer skin of the telephone line had become rigid due to the low temperature, forming a knot at the corner; he carefully untied that knot with his gloved hands and straightened it out again along the groove.

At exactly six o'clock in the morning, the first report came from the forward observation post. Zhou Dayong stood up, walked to the firing command position in a few steps, adjusted the focal length of the telescope, and looked toward the sea. The mist was thinning, and a glimmer of fish-belly white showed on the eastern horizon. The grayish morning light spilled down, slowly outlining the moving ship shadows on the sea from blurred outlines. He saw the densely arranged landing craft and transport ships, roughly counted to be at least thirty-five ships or more, among which several were obviously large transport ships with extremely deep drafts. The outlines of gun barrels and vehicles could be vaguely seen on the decks—the gun barrels were wrapped in oilcloth, emitting a dim oily sheen in the morning light; anti-skid devices were tied to the vehicle tires with iron chains, exposing half of them at the cargo hatch. Four Destroyers escorted both sides of the fleet, their turrets rotating slowly, as if adjusting angles, and the waves cleaved by the bows reflected fragmented light in the morning light like shattered colored glaze, each flash being short and sharp, like some silently flickering warning.

Zhou Dayong put down the telescope, his voice as calm as if he were talking about what to eat for lunch today: "Let the brothers in the pillboxes let them get closer before fighting. Five nautical miles. Open fire once they enter the five-nautical-mile mark. Those mines up front will give them a hard enough time. Let the mines play the leading role first, and our artillery will be the grand finale; don't steal the show."

The order spread throughout the entire defense line via the field telephone wire. The shooters in the pillboxes pushed the bullets into the chambers, resting their fingers on the triggers and pressing their eyes against the firing slits. The air inside the pillboxes had become turbid due to prolonged breathing by many people, carrying a dry breath mixed with sweat, smoke, and concrete powder. Several veterans squatted next to the ammunition boxes, wiping the rust-preventive oil on the machine gun barrels with rags, their movements slow and meticulous, as if completing some ritual that required extreme patience. One of the veterans wrapped a piece of oil-soaked cloth strip around the cleaning rod, slowly pushing it in from the muzzle end and slowly pulling it out. When pulled out, the cloth strip was stained with a layer of pale gray metal debris, which was the trace copper residue remaining in the rifling after the last shooting. No one spoke, and only the clicking sound of bullets being pressed into the magazines, the faint collision sounds made when metal parts were reassembled, and the slight sound of someone swallowing saliva due to dryness in their throat were exceptionally clear under the dim light. A young soldier squatted beside the firing slit, observing the sea through that narrow gap. His breathing was very light, but the index finger of his left hand was unconsciously rubbing the wooden grain on the handguard of the barrel, as if counting the number of those wood grains.

The landing fleet on the sea was getting closer and closer. The sound of engines turned from a distant low hum into a continuous roar close by, its pitch compressed sharper in the cold air, and the hulls dragged white wakes across the sea like scars slowly healing. On those approaching landing craft, the figures of the soldiers also became clear—they wore earth-yellow combat uniforms, their steel helmets reflecting a cold iron-colored light in the morning light; someone leaning against the ship's side lowered his head to check his rifle very slowly, as if stalling for time; someone had an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, and the smoke condensed into mist due to the cold, overflowing from the corners of his mouth and drifting before him; someone tightly grasped the lanyard of the life jacket on his chest, his knuckles turning pale from force, with deep dents pressed into his fingertips. Further away on the bridge of that flagship, a figure wearing general's uniform was holding a telescope and looking toward the shore, that posture calm and resolute, as if admiring a well-arranged landscape painting. The barrel of the telescope remained motionless in his hands, reflecting the morning light on its lenses like a silent signal.

When the ramp of the first landing craft crashed down on the shallow beach, the time was 6:47. The splashes kicked up when the ramp smashed into the water surface were fully half a person high, forming a rapidly expanding circle of white ripples on the water surface, which bounced back upon hitting the hull of the adjacent landing craft and intertwined with new ripples into a complex water pattern.

Those marines charged down the ramp holding their rifles, their boots stepping into the shallow water and splashing fine water droplets. Someone staggered a step because of a misstep, his knees sinking into the water, before quickly steadying his stance and standing up again. They quickly deployed formations on the beach, advancing forward in a skirmish line, with their muzzles pointing at the sand dunes and bushes ahead. Every dozen meters they advanced, they paused, scanned ahead with their eyes, and continued moving forward. The sandy ground underfoot was moist and soft, making a dull sound when stepped on. Occasionally stepping on a piece of gravel washed up by the waves, their ankles would twist slightly, but no one slowed down their pace because of this. The sun had just revealed half its face from behind the clouds, and the golden-red light slanted across the beach, drawing long shadows of those moving figures. The shadows fell on the moist sandy ground with outlines as clear as if carved by a knife. The first batch of troops safely reached the beachhead without encountering any resistance. A short and restrained confirmation came over the radio, the voice lowered very much: "Beachhead secure. Advancing. No anomalies ahead."

However, when the second batch of landing craft lowered their gangways and more soldiers flooded onto the beach, the first explosion tore through the tranquility of the morning sky.

That was not an ordinary artillery shell explosion, but a much duller, more violent sound, like the earth itself violently tearing open a gap.

The directional mines buried at the edge of the dunes were triggered, and thousands of steel balls swept across the ground in a spreading fan shape. The advancing columns of soldiers were pushed from the side as if by an invisible giant hand, tumbling over entirely, some stopping their movements even while still in mid-air.

Blood mist filled the morning light. Some people collapsed onto the sandy ground before they even had time to let out a scream, their rifles sliding two or three meters away, the gunstocks carving shallow grooves into the sand surface.

Immediately afterwards, bounding mines bounced out of the sand, exploding at head height, and scattered fragments poured down head-on from above. Steel helmets were dented and deformed like paper shells. Some people staggered a few steps holding their throats, which had been torn open by fragments, before collapsing. Dark red blood gushed out from between their fingers, mixing with the sand grains to become dark brown mud, dripping onto the sandy surface with tiny pattering sounds.

A non-commissioned officer tried to bend down to pull up a companion who had fallen to the ground, but as soon as he bent over, he was hit in the flank by fragments from the second wave of bounding mines. His entire body was shoved hard from the side, flung sideways, and after twitching a few times on the sandy ground, his limbs stopped moving.

The scene on the beach became horrifying within just a few dozen seconds.

Shattered steel helmets, deformed rifles, scattered bullet casings, and intertwined limbs were scattered across the blood-stained sandy ground. The seawater was dyed a dark red, and as the waves surged, wisps of blood threads were entwined in the foam, like some kind of spreading, unwashable mark.

Several soldiers who were not quite dead crawled with difficulty across the sandy ground, dragging dark red trails behind them. Some crawled four or five meters before stopping, lying prone and motionless, their fingers still tightly clutching the sand grains, with moist sand and dried blood wedged between their finger gaps.

Someone knelt in the shallow water with hands raised above their head, mouth opening and closing, not knowing what they were shouting. Their voice was torn to pieces by the explosions, leaving only lip movements repeating the same syllable, like some kind of silent echo.

The sandy surface was covered everywhere with bullet holes and sand grains overturned by shockwaves. A broken rifle barrel was half-buried in the sand, its front sight askew to one side, like something silent that took one last look at the sky.

Zhou Dayong waited until the enemy's second wave of landing forces stepped completely deep into the minefield before lowering his binoculars.

His voice was a bit tighter than before, but still clear: "Cannons, range twelve kilometers, target the enemy transport fleet. First round, high-explosive shells, barrage fire. Three consecutive rounds."

At the six positions outside the bunkers, twelve cannons opened fire almost simultaneously.

The muzzle flames bloomed like instantaneous orange-red flowers in the morning light. The recoil shook the entire gun position, and the support legs under the gun carriage sank half an inch into the frozen soil before springing back to their original position.

When the 150mm heavy artillery shells cut through the low air, they emitted a continuous and low whistling sound, like the noise squeezed out as some massive object traveled through the air.

The shells of the first salvo flew for about fifteen seconds—during those fifteen seconds, everything on the sea surface seemed to slow down, the rolling of the surges, the swaying of the hulls, the figures running on the decks—and then smashed into the transport ships coming ashore like a giant's fist.

Two shells hit the middle of a large transport ship's hull. The first penetrated the side steel plate and exploded inside the cargo hold, and the second closely followed, drilling through that breach and detonating the fuel drums loaded inside the cabin.

That ship was torn apart from the inside, its hull snapped in half from the middle by an invisible giant hand. The keel made a crisp cracking sound, and the vehicles and supplies on the deck slid into the sea like toppled building blocks.

Seawater poured frantically from the breach, and the hull tilted rapidly. Soldiers on the deck fell into the icy water like dumplings dropped into a pot. Steel helmets and rifles floated on the water surface for a moment before sinking down, and only the orange floaters of life jackets bobbed up and down among the surges, like some kind of final persisting marker.

A soldier grabbed half of a broken board, his fingers digging into the wood grain, his fingernails splitting open, but he did not let go, just gripping it desperately and letting the board roll in the waves.

Almost simultaneously, the first wave of tongues of fire spewed from the shooting ports of the pillbox cluster.

Those hidden machine-gun firing points opened fire simultaneously, and bullets formed a crossfire network covering the entire beachhead.

The coalition soldiers who rushed onto the beach were suppressed in the open field, unable to advance or retreat—ahead were machine guns, underfoot were minefields, and behind were sinking landing craft.

Some tried to crawl forward flat on the ground, but after crawling five or six meters with their bodies pressed against the sand, they were blown away by bounding mines; some tried to turn around and run back, but after running only two steps, they were pierced through the back by machine-gun bullets, falling face forward into the spray; others raised their hands in despair, their shouts quickly swallowed by artillery fire, choking violently on the gunpowder smoke, kneeling on the sand with their bodies curled up into a ball.

On the sea, the coalition Destroyers began to counterattack.

Shells from the 305mm naval guns landed on Li Ling's coastal defense positions, blowing away soil and gravel, with concrete fragments splashing everywhere.

The camouflage layers of several pillboxes were blown away, revealing the dark gray reinforced concrete walls underneath and the gun barrels protruding from the shooting ports. The concrete surfaces were scraped with light-white abrasions by shrapnel, as if forcefully scratched by something sharp.

But those pillboxes themselves were poured with two-meter-thick concrete, which ordinary Destroyer shells simply could not penetrate. Shrapnel hitting the walls only left shallow impressions before bouncing away, not even leaving a decent crack, adding only a light-colored scratch on the surface Mortar layer, like marks left by fingernails scraping an old wall.

The gunners crouched behind the shooting ports and continued firing, their fingers never letting go of the triggers even as gravel rustled down from overhead, even as the shrieking sound of shrapnel brushing against the outer walls of the bunker swept over their heads.

A corner of a cannon bunker was sheared off by shrapnel, and several sandbags were blown away. A piece of shrapnel still carrying lingering warmth smashed into the frozen soil next to the gun position, hissing white steam, its edges burning red. The gunner glanced sideways, withdrew his gaze, and continued to load, aim, and fire, his movements smooth and accomplished in one go without pause.

Several bullet casings were scattered beside the gun position, still emitting faint smoke, and the primer strike marks at the bottom of the casings had become blurred.

This coastal defense meat grinder lasted for nearly two hours, consuming lives and shell casings every minute.

When the artillery fire finally gradually thinned out, the beachhead of Sansha Bay had completely changed its appearance.

Hundreds of meters of sandy beach were littered with wreckage of landing craft and shattered boards. Twisted metal frames were obliquely inserted into the sand like withered branches, some still smoking, the smoke thin and stubborn, like souls unwilling to disperse.

After the seawater receded, it exposed the sand layer soaked with fresh blood, presenting a varying dark brown, as if repeatedly dyed many times, from light brown to dark brown and then to near black, with the colors distributed along the tide line into parallel stripes.

The corpses still remaining on the beach lay sprawlingly. Some lay prone in the sand maintaining a charging posture, with their faces buried downwards in the sand; some curled up into a ball with both hands protecting their heads, as if instinctively making a protective posture in the final moments of the explosion; others lay flat on their backs, gazing at the gray-white sky, their eyes half-open, their pupils already dilated into a grayish-dark circle.

The air was filled with a mixed smell of gunpowder smoke, blood, and scorching, so thick it could not be dissolved. Blown away slightly by the sea wind, it was quickly replenished by newly surging smells, like some heavy curtain that would never disperse.

Several gulls flew in from a distance, circled the battlefield a few times, and then shrieked and flew away. The sound of wings beating against the air appeared exceptionally clear in the post-explosion silence, like some kind of helpless protest.

On the sea, the coalition's remaining landing craft were fleeing in disarray toward the high seas, their engine sounds becoming flustered and broken, as if chased by something.

The Destroyers retreated while carrying out final blind fires with their naval guns, the shells landing on the empty beach and blowing up several puffs of dust, entirely meaningless, like some futile farewell.

A heavily wounded transport ship was still tilting and burning on the sea, thick smoke rolling straight into the sky, pointing at the sky like a giant black finger. At the bottom of the smoke column were orange-red flames, and the top was blown by high-altitude winds into a gray-black cloud.

In the distance, several rescue ships were approaching that burning wreckage, lowering lifeboats to salvage people who had fallen into the water.

Those soldiers who fell into the water struggled in the icy seawater, their cries for help torn to pieces by the wind. Some grabbed lifebuoys, their fingers stiff with cold and barely able to hold on; some hugged a shattered wooden board, their lips already frozen purple; some no longer struggled, just floating quietly, their military uniforms puffing up a vague outline on the water surface like old clothes forgotten on a lake.

Li Ling stood in the rear command post, holding his binoculars and watching all this quietly.

His arms rested on the window frame, and a small area of the cuff edge exposed at his wrist had a mark scraped by shrapnel, with a few stray threads slightly swaying in the wind.

He lowered his binoculars, picked up the water cup on the table and took a sip. The tea had already turned completely cold, and a bitter taste spread across the tip of his tongue, but he did not frown, just swallowing slowly, feeling that coolness slide from his throat down to his stomach.

His gaze lingered on those still-burning wrecks for a moment, and then turned to the north.

From that direction, Chief of Staff Zhang Wanshan's telegram had just been delivered. The corners of the paper still carried the lingering warmth from the transceiver, and the printing ink smell of the telecommunication room still clung to the paper surface.

The telegram had only a few words, but every single word pierced like an ice pick into the coldest crevice of his heart: "The Northeast is in critical condition, Japanese forces have landed, and Liushutun has fallen. I earnestly request immediate reinforcement."

Li Ling folded the telegram paper in half once, folded it in half again into a small square, and put it into the inner pocket of his coat.

He picked up the teacup and took another sip of the thoroughly cold tea, swallowing down that bitterness. The tea rolled through his throat, carrying a dull and heavy coolness that spread all the way to his stomach.

"Have the First Army Group detach two divisions and immediately head north to reinforce Chief of Staff Zhang Wanshan. I will go personally." His voice was as calm as if he were talking about what to have for dinner tonight, but the staff officers around him all felt a chill.

The youngest staff officer subconsciously clenched the pencil in his hand, the tip poking a shallow black dot into the notepad, the ink slowly bleeding out on the paper like a small dark flower blooming.

The sea wind outside the window howled as it poured in, blowing the corner of the map on the desk. That thin sheet of paper was lifted and dropped by the wind, like lips about to speak but stopping, opening and closing repeatedly, yet never uttering that complete word.

And Li Ling had already strode out of the command post. His boots stepping on the gravelly ground made a rapid and steady sound. That sound traveled farther and farther away, yet became clearer and clearer, like an elongating, irreversible countdown, with each sound heavier than the previous one, as if something was stepping closer and closer to that critical point.