203: Chapter 113 Northeast in Crisis

On January 21, 1908, on the eastern coast of the Liaodong Peninsula, the sea breeze carrying ice shards poured in from the water, as if it wanted to freeze everything between heaven and earth into brittle shards.

When those ice shards hit the metal surface, they made a faint crackling sound, like someone in the distance hammering something with nails.

The sky was grayish-white, and the sunlight was blocked by thick clouds, leaving only a brightness without any temperature, spread flatly across the thin-iced sea surface, casting the silhouettes of the Warship Zhuifengs approaching the shore into a blurry iron-gray outline. The contact point between the hull and the ice surface made a faint cracking sound, crunch, crunch, like something fragile being slowly crushed. The cracking sound spread across the empty sea surface, and was then covered by the sound of the wind, like some continuous, low-density sigh.

Thirteen large landing Warship Zhuifengs lowered their gangplanks on a gentle beach about seventy kilometers south of the Liao River Estuary.

The hulls rose and fell slightly in the swells, and when the gangplanks slammed into the shallow water, they stirred up muddy splashes. The freezing seawater instantly flooded the deck, wetting the boots and trouser legs of the first batch of soldiers stepping out of the cabins, and the water stains on the cuffs quickly formed a hard crust in the cold wind, emitting a faint cracking sound of ice with every step.

The cold wind rolled fine snow grains hitting the metal railings, and the rustling sound was like someone continuously dumping something dry in the distance.

Those soldiers wearing heavy winter military uniforms wore fur hats and gloves, with anti-freezing ointment smeared on their faces, which gave off a dim oily sheen under the low temperature. The white breath they exhaled condensed into clusters of fog in the cold air, which were quickly torn apart by the wind into fine white lines, like fleeting handwriting.

A thin layer of frost had condensed on the rifle barrels, reflecting a dim light under the grayish-white sky. The canvas binding straps on the grips had become stiff due to the cold, and the fingers needed 30% more strength than usual to grip tightly. When the pads of the fingers rubbed against the rough canvas, it made a subtle rustling sound, like sandpaper slowly grinding on a wooden surface.

The advance party of the Second Division of the Japan Army had completed the first batch of landing.

This force, which had accumulated rich experience in the Russo-Japanese War, showed a high degree of organization: the vanguard company deployed in skirmish lines to both sides of the beach, with an interval of about eight meters per person, advancing with bowed waists and short steps; the reconnaissance squad crossed the withered reed belt and pushed further inland, with cautious and even paces, leaving very shallow footprints on the frozen mud; the signalmen set up antennas on the hillside, connecting to the communication vehicles on the Warship Zhuifengs with field telephone wires; the engineers slowly advanced on the preset landing lanes with portable mine detectors, walking extremely slowly at every step, then stopping to look down, their hands working in tacit coordination, one hand holding the probe rod and the other holding a small red flag for marking.

The Mortar squads of the rear echelon were unloading the barrels and baseplates from the landing Warship Zhuifengs, and forklifts moved back and forth on the swaying deck. The sound of engines and the wind mixed together, forming a low background noise along the coastline, like a melodyless, continuously playing prelude.

A commander stood on high ground, observing the inland direction with binoculars. The lenses reflected the grayish-white sky and the darker contours of the hills further away. His lips moved slightly, as if silently reciting some coordinates.

However, the first wave of resistance they encountered came very quickly, not large in scale, but carrying an unexpected fierceness.

That fierceness was not flamboyant, but silent, patient, and fought out shot by shot.

The Tang Country border defense company stationed in a nearby border market town called "Liushu Tun" had only more than eighty people. Company Commander Lao Zhou was a veteran in his early thirties who had participated in bandit suppression, fought in border frictions, and defended pillboxes in the Sanshawan anti-landing battle.

He knew that once the Japan people came ashore, they would not easily retreat.

After receiving the landing alert, he only did three things: first, he ordered the communication soldier to send a telegram to the brigade headquarters, reporting the enemy's landing position and scale. When sending the telegram, he squatted next to the radio, watching the radio operator's fingers tap quickly on the telegraph key, each stroke short and affirmative; second, he had the entire company enter defensive positions, deploying defenses relying on the earthen walls and ditches on the periphery of the village. The machine gunner mounted his gun on the wall and raised the aiming baseline with sandbags, and the riflemen dug individual firing positions at the base of the wall, with bayonets stuck upright into the soil, their blades shining like a narrow silver thread under the grayish-white light; third, he asked a few ordinary people to quickly retreat backward, running toward the nearest county seat. He helped an old man onto a donkey cart, wiped the dust off the old man's face with his thumb, and then retreated behind the wall, squatting down to wrap the muzzle of his rifle with a piece of rag for waterproofing. His movements were very slow, like preparing for something he had done many times before.

"Drag it out as long as you can," he said to the squad leader beside him, his voice lowered, as if afraid of being heard by something in the distance, but every word was very clear.

"Dragging it out for one more hour gives the rear troops one more hour to prepare. Even if our entire company is wiped out, we must make them stay a little longer on this beachhead—not just a while, but until they are thoroughly spooked."

"Fight until they doubt whether these eighty people are eighty ghosts, fight and run, run and come back, come back and fight again, so that they can't even count how many people we have left."

In the next hour and a half, this border defense company of only eighty-odd people, using limited terrain advantages and old-fashioned rifles, caused quite a bit of trouble for an entire organized division's advance party of Japan.

They hid behind the half-person-high earthen wall at the entrance of the village, their rifle stocks pressed against their frozen shoulders, aiming at the figures poking their bodies out from the edge of the reed belt.

A three-round burst, and a gunner setting up a Mortar fell backward, the barrel slipping from his hands and hitting the ground with a muffled metallic sound;

then came the second shot, a squad leader trying to outflank from the flank knelt on the frozen mud clutching his abdomen, his hand resting on his abdomen for a while before moving away, his palm covered in dark red;

the third shot, a bullet hit the edge of a communication soldier's helmet who was adjusting the radio, the helmet was scratched with a white mark, the man instinctively shrank his neck, and then continued to operate the radio, his fingers did not stop, and a thin layer of sweat seeped out of his forehead.

They used Hand grenades to force back a light armored vehicle trying to bypass the edge of the village, and the explosion of the Hand grenades spread far across the open fields, like the sound of a hammer hitting an empty tin sheet.

When the tracks of that armored vehicle rolled over the dry ditch, they got stuck at the bottom of the frozen trench, and the metal pieces of the tracks slipped on the ice, making a sharp friction sound. Forced to back up from the side by two Hand grenades, the tracks churned up chunks of frozen soil and hit the side of the vehicle body when reversing, clanging loudly.

On the earthen slope at a high point, a shooter placed his rifle barrel on a piece of broken wood and fired five bullets in succession—once the clip slipped during reloading and almost failed to catch it, once the target had already left its original position when re-aiming, and one bullet deviated to the side fifteen centimeters away from the target, flying past the man's shoulder and taking away only a small piece of cloth.

Frustrated by several failed charges, the Japan commander flew into a rage and brought in two infantry cannons.

When those 70-millimeter shells landed in the hamlet, the sound was completely different from a Hand grenade—more muffled, like someone punching a thick wooden door with a fist; heavier, and the soil and wood fragments kicked up by the explosion flew much higher, tracing slow and heavy arcs in the air before scattering down like a small, violent rain.

The earth-and-wood structure houses began to collapse under the continuous bombardment, the loess walls disintegrating and crumbling like toppled building blocks, and the tiles flying out like shredded paper, still retaining residual warmth when they landed in the snow, scorching rings of white-vapor-emitting depressions into the surrounding snow surface, while the rising heat formed brief pillars of mist in the cold air.

The crown of the old elm tree at the entrance of the village was half-shaved off by shrapnel, and the broken branch hung on the trunk, shaking a few times before falling off, smashing into the ground and stirring up a small cloud of snow mist.

Flames and thick smoke soared into the sky, dyeing the sky in the northeast corner of the village a dusky yellow; at the base of the smoke column was bright yellow flame, in the middle was grayish-black thick smoke, and the top was pulled apart by the wind into a flat dark cloud, resembling a stretching, weightless arm.

Several villagers who hadn't managed to evacuate lay prone in the ditch, holding their heads with both hands, their ears buzzing and unable to hear any other sound, with only a continuous low-frequency roar echoing in their skulls, like a huge bell being struck repeatedly.

When the artillery fire finally ceased, the hamlet had turned into ruins.

The border defense company of over eighty men had exhausted its ammunition in the resistance, and Lao Zhou was hit by shrapnel in his left ribs while covering the retreat of the last few soldiers, located between the seventh and eighth ribs, with the shrapnel embedded diagonally through the intercostal muscles.

He leaned against the base of the collapsed earthen wall, first reaching out to touch the wound. His fingers were stained with blood, and after looking at them in front of his eyes, he slowly fished a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, put it in his mouth, and pulled out a match, striking it three times before lighting it. The third match head sparked a cluster of yellow flame that illuminated half of his face before being blown out by the wind.

The charred aroma of the tobacco mixed with the smell of gunpowder, lingering briefly in the cold air, combining with the lingering scent of gunpowder in his nasal cavity like a rough yet familiar mixture.

He slowly finished smoking the cigarette, taking a puff, resting for a moment, and taking another puff.

The cigarette butt was stubbed out against the earthen wall, leaving a black scorch mark, and then he wiped the foam of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, sitting quietly like an old farmer resting on a field ridge.

His breathing gradually grew lighter, each rise and fall shallower and longer than the last, like a leaky old bellows. His lips moved slightly without making a sound, just twitching, like a word that hadn't yet been spoken being pulled back in.

The several Japan soldiers surrounding him raised their guns from a distance, forming a loose semicircle about twenty meters in front of him.

The muzzles were all pointing in the same direction, but not a single person pulled the trigger first.

One of the soldiers' hands holding the gun was slightly trembling, and the front sight continuously shook slightly along the alignment line.

Until someone behind him urged in Japanese—a short and urgent sound, like a taut string finally snapping—the youngest soldier slightly deflected the muzzle, closed his eyes, and opened them again.

The bullet passed through that figure leaning against the earthen wall.

Lao Zhou did not fall immediately; his body just leaned forward a few centimeters, then leaned sideways back against the wall.

The edge of the fabric around the bullet hole was scorched black by gunpowder.

The surface of the earthen wall against his shoulder was stained with a dark red vertical streak by the blood, appearing particularly abrupt on the gray-white wall. That mark extended from the shoulder position all the way to the waist, like a hastily written, unfinished sentence.

The snow at the base of the wall was melted by body temperature into a palm-sized patch, with tiny ice crystals condensing at the edges. The ice crystals flashed in the afternoon light before returning to dimness.

When the news of the fall of Liushu Village reached Li Ling's ears, he was on a special train heading to the Northeast.

The train rushed through the wilderness, and the clacking sound made by the wheels rolling over the rail joints repeated rhythmically, like some approaching countdown, each sound slightly faster than the previous one, as if something was accelerating.

He sat at the table in the carriage covered with a dark green tablecloth, a military map of the Northeast region spread out before him, a pencil spinning round and round between his fingers.

When the communication staff officer handed him the telegram from the frontline observation post, his reading time was very brief, about six or seven seconds. His gaze paused on the words "Liushu Village", and then he folded the telegram paper in half once, placed it on the corner of the table, and let his gaze fall on the sesame-sized mark of Liushu Village on the map.

Next to that mark, it originally read "Permanent border defense company, about eighty people." Now those words had been gently crossed out by a red pen drawn at some unknown time; the stroke was light, as if simply making a mark.

"System," his voice was steady, but slightly lower than usual, like someone closing a window indoors, "They mean business this time. The Japan people want to open a gap in the Northeast before we complete the Northern Expedition, lengthening the battle line so we cannot attend to both ends at once. They want to pry the Northeast out of our hands while our main force is still in the south and center."

"How does the host plan to respond?"

Li Ling unscrewed his portable flat iron canteen and took a sip of the already cold tea. The bitter taste slowly spread across the tip of his tongue. He swallowed that sip of tea and screwed the cap back on, making a fine metallic friction sound.

"They want to stand up on the coast. Then I will make sure they cannot stand."

He flipped the map to the back and took out a pencil to write a new order.

The sound of the pencil tip gliding across the paper surface was hurried and dense, like raindrops hitting a tin roof, short and even. Every word was written quickly, but every stroke was clear.

After finishing, he handed the order to the communication staff officer, sending it simultaneously to three directions using three different encrypted channels: First, the Cruiser detachment of the First Fleet on standby in the Bohai Bay shall immediately advance to the open sea off the Liao River Estuary, implementing artillery blockades along the coast of the Liaodong Peninsula, focusing on covering the troop assembly areas and material yards behind the landing point, adopting intermittent firing, one round every fifteen minutes, lasting until dark; Second, the Logistics Department shall transport thirty bases of ammunition and fifteen days of rations to Shanhaiguan for reserve within three days, escorted throughout by the Railway Corps troops, with dual-guard checkposts added along the way, reporting progress with stations along the line every two hours; Third, Commander Zhao Tieshan's Special Forces shall conduct preliminary reconnaissance tonight, prioritizing the confirmation of the enemy command post and ammunition yard locations, without needing to take action, only needing to look, count, and record.

After the order was issued, the atmosphere in the carriage changed.

The staff officers began busily sending and receiving telegrams, the sound of telegraph keys rising and falling one after another, like a precision machine in operation, with every gear turning in its own position.

Li Ling leaned against the car window, looking at the wilderness flashing rapidly outside. Snow covered the withered fields, revealing several dark gullies scraped out by the wind, resembling wounds left after the earth cracked from freezing, with the edges of the gullies presenting a thin layer of ice crust due to repeated freezing and thawing.

Smoke from cooking fires rose from some village in the distance, pressed very low by the wind, drifting along the rooftops into a grayish-white thin line, like a piece of cotton thread being stretched and dispersed, then disappearing into the gray firmament.

In those grayish-white gaps, one could occasionally see the reflection of a moving rail, like a flattened lightning bolt extending northward along the earth.

The "Warship Zhuifeng" and the "zhuilang", those two Longxun Type II high-speed battlecruisers, were maneuvering at full speed toward the Bohai Bay direction.

They would arrive at the preset battle positions in the open sea off the Liao River Estuary before dawn, and the 380-millimeter main guns could provide precise artillery support for the onshore troops twenty kilometers away.

The newly installed Radar fire control system could maintain lock even at night and in sea fog, with continuous tracking error less than half a degree. The rangefinder readings inside the turret were being repeatedly verified by the fire control officer, with correction parameters re-entered every twenty minutes.

The two Warship Zhuifengs would parallelly deploy—their wakes forming two parallel white lines on the sea surface, pointing straight at that snow-covered coastline on the east bank of the Liaodong Gulf, resembling two bows being slowly drawn.

The wilderness outside the train window was gradually swallowed by twilight, and the lights of distant villages had successively lit up, faint and tenacious, like the earth's open eyes. Each lamp was far apart, shining individually, with a continuous expanse of darkness between them.

Li Ling withdrew his gaze and let it fall on the Liaodong Peninsula on the map, tapping his fingertip gently on that curved cape, as if drawing the first arc for some impending ceremony.

The train continued to drive northward, the sound of wheel-rail impact becoming clearer in the deepening night, like some calm, unhurried footsteps, tap by tap, approaching that snow-covered coastline.