Spy Wars: I am the Captain of the Military Police

Chapter 922 The Limits of the Body, Mind, and Resources

Late at night, under the only small oil lamp, Lin Wanqing wrote in her diary with trembling hands:

January 4th, cold and gloomy.

This is what hell might look like. Dr. Hu led us in performing forty-three amputations.

Without anesthesia, the screams of the wounded can tear a person's heart apart.

We've run out of hemostatic drugs, and we've used up the last bit of gauze.

Later, the only option was to use a red-hot iron to burn the wound... I'll never forget that burnt smell.

A child soldier, probably not even sixteen years old, cried out "Mommy" as his leg was being amputated, fainting and then waking up in pain.

I held his hand until he calmed down completely.

I don't know how much longer we can hold on, I just hope that tomorrow, there will be fewer brothers who need their legs amputated.

The pen tip leaves deep marks on the paper, as if carved into the wood.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Food is another sword hanging over our heads.

The defending troops and a large number of refugees who were unable to evacuate were consuming the city's already meager food reserves.

The ration standard has been lowered again and again, from two meals of porridge a day to one meal of porridge plus a cornbread, and now it is only a fist-sized cornbread mixed with bran and wild vegetables.

In the yard of the supply depot, several mules that had once carried ammunition and supplies were pacing restlessly.

They were also starving and emaciated.

The battalion commander turned his back and waved.

The gunshot rang out muffledly, followed by the sound of mules and horses falling to the ground.

No one spoke; only the cooks silently stepped forward and began to prepare the food.

This meat will be prioritized for distribution to frontline combat troops and seriously wounded soldiers.

Even the monkeys and rabbits raised by the Central Medical College for experiments were found and used as food to sustain their lives.

Hunger made people disregard everything else.

Even more heartbreaking scenes occurred at the wounded soldiers' shelter.

Some refugees, mostly elderly people and women, who were barely able to take care of themselves, tremblingly stuffed the cornbread and dried sweet potatoes they had saved, even those they had painstakingly scraped together, into the hands of the wounded soldiers.

"Sir, eat up, it'll help you fight the Japanese..." An old woman with a full head of white hair stuffed half a cornbread, which had hardened like a rock, into the hands of a young soldier with an injured arm, her cloudy eyes filled with tears.

The soldier declined, but the old woman insisted on putting it down, then turned and staggered into the cold night.

At Xiaguan Wharf, the black waters of the Yangtze River flow silently.

日海军第3舰队第11战队突破江防后，于3日下午2时许抵达下关江面，下午5时其舰艇抵达下关码头。

Japanese searchlights occasionally swept across the river, and the engines of patrol boats could be faintly heard.

But under the cover of night, several small wooden boats quietly approached the shore like ghosts.

The boat carried some food collected spontaneously by the people of Jiangbei: rice, noodles, and even pickled vegetables.

The ferrymen were dockworkers who were familiar with the waterways and risked being strafed by Japanese machine guns and swallowed by the river, traveling back and forth on the line between life and death.

"Hurry! Unload the ship!" the foreman urged in a low voice.

The small detachments sent out by the garrison silently carried these life-saving supplies.

Every bag of food that comes ashore means one more day of survival.

"Thank you, fellow villager! It's too dangerous, please don't come again!" An officer grasped the foreman's rough hand, his voice choked with emotion.

The foreman wiped the water droplets from his face, unable to tell if they were river water or sweat: "Sir, don't say that. We're north of the river, and our hearts beat with the city of Nanjing."

This little bit is nothing, but it's the thought that counts.

"If the city doesn't fall, we'll give it away!!!"

The small boat disappeared silently into the darkness, leaving behind a glimmer of hope.

Japanese 114th Division Front Command.

Division Commander Lieutenant General Shigeharu Suematsu frowned as he looked at the newly delivered logistical supply list.

The numbers marked in red on the list are alarming: the consumption of 75mm mountain artillery shells has reached three times the pre-war estimate, and the consumption of infantry shells and machine gun bullets is equally staggering.

What's more troublesome is that, for some unknown reason, the delivery of supplies has almost come to a standstill.

"Your Excellency Division Commander, all regiments at the front have reported heavy casualties among soldiers, especially officers."

Moreover... Moreover, there was a clear sense of war-weariness and fear of war among the soldiers. The chief of staff reported cautiously.

Suematsu stared silently at the Nanjing city wall line circled in red on the map.

It was like a curse, devouring the lives and courage of the imperial soldiers.

He recalled the copy of a diary he had received earlier that day, found on the body of a fallen soldier. On the last page, the soldier had written:

"On the 4th, the weather was cloudy."

They launched another attack on that damned city wall.

Machine gun bullets swept through like sickles, and people around them fell like straws.

Yamada was right next to me, his stomach had been punched through. He grabbed my hand and called out his mother's name until he died.

Nanjing, Nanjing, is this city a dwelling place of demons? How many more people must die, how much more blood must be shed, before we can cross this wall? I'm starting to miss the cherry blossoms of my hometown; perhaps I'll never see them again...

This sentiment spread like a plague among the grassroots troops.

Although the officers used Bushido and strict military law to suppress the enemy, their fear and exhaustion could not be concealed in the face of the fortified city and the desperate resistance of the defenders.

The Guanghuamen position, the darkest hour before dawn.

Xie Chengrui inspected the position.

The soldiers huddled in the trenches, clutching their guns. By the dim light of the campfire, their young faces, though etched with weariness and the marks of time, could be seen.

Many people hadn't slept for a day and a night, nor had they had a decent hot meal. A soldier was carefully gnawing on a small piece of horse meat he had been allocated, chewing very slowly, as if he were savoring the most delicious delicacy in the world.

Xie Chengrui knew that not only his troops, but the entire Nanjing defense line was already at its limit.

The limits of the body, mind, and resources.

They were using their willpower, along with the ancient city walls, to fight against the enemy's steel and fire.

He looked up towards the east, where a faint white tinge had already appeared on the horizon.

A new day will bring even fiercer battles.

Meanwhile, at the headquarters of the Japanese 6th Division, Tani Hisao received a strict order from the Area Army Headquarters to capture Nanjing within forty-eight hours at all costs.

He looked at the map, a fierce glint in his eyes.

"Order the artillery to concentrate all firepower on the section of the city wall from Zhonghua Gate to Shuixi Gate after dawn! Tell the infantry that this is the final assault! Take Nanjing, and they will be given three days of leave!"

This order spread like wildfire among the Japanese army, foreshadowing the bloodiest storm before the fall of Nanjing.

Inside and outside the city walls, soldiers on both sides held their breath, waiting for dawn, for the battle that was destined to stain the Yangtze River red.