Not enough Japanese devils to kill? 1.4 billion people volunteer for the Battle of Shanghai.

The muffled thud of shrapnel exploding in the air was like the Grim Reaper knocking his fingers in the clouds.

Japanese soldiers witnessed the second lieutenant, who just three seconds earlier had been waving his sword and shouting "Tenka-banzai!"

Three seconds later, his body felt like a tomato being struck by an invisible giant hammer—

puff.

The clothes, along with the flesh underneath, were simultaneously blasted open with dozens of bloody holes.

The momentum of the charge was abruptly halted.

The Japanese soldiers in the front row instinctively stopped in their tracks.

"Demon...devil..."

Private Ono looked at the hellish scene before him, at his comrades who had just been lively and energetic but were now mangled corpses, and his Type 38 rifle clattered to the ground.

He had only been in the army for three months; he was the son of a merchant who had been conscripted from Osaka.

Before coming to China, his father patted him on the shoulder and said, "Xiao Ye, go and make a name for yourself and bring honor to your ancestors."

But now—

He watched as a companion's head was blown apart by a steel ball, his brains splattered on the charred tree trunk beside him, a mixture of white and red.

My stomach churned violently.

"vomit--!"

He bent over and vomited.

They vomited only acidic fluid because they had only eaten half a compressed biscuit since last night.

"Ono! Pick up your gun! Charge!"

The sergeant next to him roared and slapped him across the face.

Ono was slapped so hard he saw stars, but he remained sprawled on the ground, staring blankly at the area in front of him where steel pellets were raining down.

charge?

Should we rush in and die?

"I...I'm not going to rinse anymore..."

His lips trembled, and his voice was as soft as a mosquito's buzz.

But the sergeant heard it.

"Baka! What did you say?!"

The sergeant's eyes widened in fury, and he raised his sword to strike—

"boom--!!!"

Another shrapnel grenade exploded not far away.

Steel balls flew past.

The sergeant lost half his head.

Red and white sprays landed all over Ono's face.

Warm, with a slightly fishy and sweet taste.

Ono blankly reached out and touched his face, looking at his hand covered in a mixture of red and white.

Then--

"Aaaaaaahh ...

He screamed and turned to run.

Like a startled rabbit, it scrambled and stumbled, running wildly in the direction it had come from.

As he ran, he tore at his clothes as if they were red-hot irons.

"Don't kill me! Don't kill me! I want to go home! I want to go home—!!!"

His scream was like a fuse.

"I'm not washing it either!"

"Run away—!!"

"Run! Run!"

More and more soldiers threw down their guns and ran wildly across the scorched earth and shattered corpses.

The expressions on their faces were no longer fervent, no longer courageous.

It was terror.

It's a crash.

It is a complete spiritual collapse.

One second the Imperial Army was shouting "Banzai!" and the next second they became fleeing soldiers crying for their parents and wishing they had two more legs.

Is it funny?

It's hilarious.

One of the Japanese soldiers was running too fast and tripped over a corpse, falling face-first into the mud.

Ignoring the pain, he scrambled to his feet and continued running, not even daring to turn back to pick up his fallen helmet.

Another Japanese soldier knelt on the ground, repeatedly kowtowing towards the direction of the Chinese positions, muttering:

"Grandpa, spare me! Grandpa, spare me!"

Inside the "Kirin 102" tank.

The embroiderer pressed her eyes against the scope, calmly observing the battlefield.

On the fire control system screen, constantly updated data was displayed:

Distance: 550 meters.

Wind speed: 2.8 m/s.

Humidity: 73%.

Remaining shrapnel rounds: 7.

But she did not continue firing.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes slightly.

Through the high-magnification scope, she could see clearly—

The Japanese troops' charging formation was completely disrupted.

The soldiers in the front ranks were fleeing.

The soldier in the middle hesitated.

The soldiers in the back row, unaware of what was happening, continued to push forward.

The entire offensive wave, like seawater crashing against a reef, began to surge backward.

"The collapse is underway."

The embroiderer murmured to herself, her voice echoing in the enclosed carriage.

She achieved her goal of using shrapnel.

This type of ammunition not only has a large kill area, but more importantly—

Its method of killing is visually striking.

When a bullet hits a person, it can leave a bloody hole.

If a shell hits a person, they will likely end up as a mangled corpse.

But shrapnel is different.

It exploded in mid-air, showering down steel balls and shrapnel like raindrops.

Those who are shot often do not die on the spot, but struggle in pain and scream in agony in a pool of blood.

Their miserable state would be clearly seen by their companions around them.

Their screams will reach everyone's ears.

Fear is contagious.

When the first soldier turns and runs away, there will be a second, a third...

When the first squadron collapses, there will be a second, a third...

Once the collapse begins, it's like an avalanche, impossible to stop.

The embroiderer's fingers left the launch button.

She switched to the communication channel:

"The anvil, the door-breaker."

"exist."

"exist."

"Remain vigilant and be ready to continue the fight at any time."

"clear."

"receive."

…………

A temporary command post behind the Japanese attack position.

Major General Katayama Satoichiro, commander of the 5th Infantry Brigade, stood on the turret of a Type 89 medium tank, holding binoculars, his face ashen.

What did he see?

They saw his meticulously planned artillery positions turn into a sea of ​​fire within minutes.

He saw his soldiers being harvested like wheat in the face of that eerie rain of steel pellets falling from the sky.

I also saw—

flight.

The Imperial Army is actually in a rout!

Like stray dogs, they abandoned their armor and weapons, crying and screaming, and ran wildly backward!

"Baka—!!!"

Katayama Riichiro suddenly slammed the binoculars to the ground.

"No retreating! No retreating—!!!"

He roared hoarsely, his voice distorted by extreme rage:

"The supervisory team! Where is the supervisory team?!"

"Hai!"

A lieutenant strode forward, stood at attention, and saluted:

"Brigade Commander! The supervisory team is in position! Fifty men in total, all of them the most loyal and ruthless non-commissioned officers drawn from various regiments!"

Katayama Riichiro jumped off the chariot and drew the gilded officer's pistol from his waist.

"lead the way!"

"Hai!"

The supervisory team's defensive line was set up on the only route the retreaters would take.

Fifty non-commissioned officers, holding Type 38 rifles with bayonets fixed, stood in a row, their faces as cold as ice.

Their task was simple:

Those who retreat will be killed.

Those who flee, kill.

Anyone who undermines morale will be executed.

Ahead of them, fleeing Japanese soldiers surged forward.

A dark mass, like a flock of frightened sheep.

"stop!"

The squad leader, a second lieutenant with a scar on his face, shouted sternly:

"If you dare to retreat even one step, kill you without mercy!"

The fleeing soldiers stopped in their tracks.

They looked at the gleaming bayonets and the undisguised murderous intent in the eyes of the supervising soldiers, and despair appeared on their faces.

There were supervisory teams in front, and then there was that terrifying rain of steel balls behind.

dilemma.

"Make way! Let us through!"

A private first class, his face covered in blood, cried out:

"Hell is ahead! It's filled with demons! Charging forward means certain death!"

"Baka!"

The second lieutenant in the supervisory team raised his hand and fired a shot.

boom!

The bullet struck the private's feet, kicking up a clump of dirt.

"If you dare spread these rumors again, I'll blow your head off with the next shot!"

The routed soldiers fell silent in fear.

Just then—

Katayama Riichiro has arrived.

He walked to the front of the supervisory team, looked at the dozens of pale-faced, trembling soldiers, and a cold killing intent flashed in his eyes.

Katayama Riichiro knew that once these dozens of Japanese soldiers actually escaped...

The rest of the 5th Infantry Brigade would follow suit and scatter and flee.

By then, even if there were 500 or 500 supervisors, they would be powerless to do anything.

He must get these routed soldiers back into the fray and stop the current rout.

Katayama Riichiro let out a long breath, but didn't say anything.

He raised his pistol and aimed at a soldier in the front row of the fleeing troops.

He was a young private, who looked to be under twenty years old, with a youthful face.

His crotch was soaked; he had clearly wet himself in fear.

"Brigade...Brigade Commander..."

"I…………"

The young soldier stared at the dark muzzle of the gun, his lips trembling, as if he wanted to say something.

boom!

A shot rang out.

The bullet pierced his forehead.

The young body lay backward, its eyes still open, filled with confusion and bewilderment.

He never understood why, even in death, he was killed not by an enemy, but by one of his own.

Katayama Riichiro lowered his still-smoking pistol and coldly surveyed the fleeing soldiers:

"Did you see that?"

"This is what happens when you desert in the face of battle."

The defeated soldiers were completely silent, not daring to even breathe.

To kill the chicken as a warning to the monkey.

The effect is immediate.

Katayama Riichiro's gaze swept across the fleeing soldiers.

Finally, the camera stopped on a short soldier with a deathly pale face.

"Private Kameda."

His voice wasn't loud, but it pierced the soldier's ears like an icicle.

Kameda shuddered and instinctively stood at attention:

"Ha...hai!"

"I remember you." Katayama Riichiro slowly walked up to him, looking him up and down. "You're from Akita Prefecture, right?"

"Yes...yes, Your Excellency!"

"I have an elderly mother at home, and a son who's just a month old." Katayama Riichiro's tone suddenly became "gentle," but that gentleness was more chilling than a direct threat.

"Before you went to war, the village held a farewell party for you. Your mother hugged you and cried, saying she would wait for your triumphant return."

Kameda's forehead began to sweat.

"Now—" Katayama Riichiro's voice suddenly turned cold, "you're running away from the battlefield."

"If this news gets back to Akita..."

He paused, each word like a knife:

"Does your mother still have the face to live in this world?"

"What will your son think when he grows up and finds out his father was a deserter?"

"Your Kameda family has always been law-abiding. It's only in your generation that you've finally produced a 'Soldier of the Empire'—"

Katayama Riichiro leaned close to Kameda's face, his voice low but clear enough for everyone around to hear:

"Do you want your entire family to be smeared with eternal shame because of you alone?"

Kameda's face went from deathly pale to ashen.

He seemed to see—

The elderly mother knelt in the ancestral hall, weeping bitterly before the ancestral tablets.

The wife was holding her son, and the villagers pointed and whispered among themselves.

After his son started school, his classmates mocked him, saying, "Your dad is a deserter."

The entire Kameda family could no longer hold their heads high in the village.

even……

According to the distorted logic of militarism, family members might actually be forced to "commit seppuku as atonement."

"No...don't..."

Kameda's lips trembled, and tears mixed with snot streamed down his face.

"Please... Your Excellency... Don't tell my family..."

"That depends on your performance."

Katayama Riichiro straightened up and patted him on the shoulder, a very light touch that felt like it weighed a ton.

"Go back to your place."

"Pick up your gun."

"Charge forward!"

"Wash away your cowardice with the enemy's blood."

"Use your military achievements to win honor for your family."

"otherwise--"

He didn't finish speaking.

But everyone understood.

Kameda stood there blankly for a few seconds.

Then, he bent down and picked up the rifle he had just thrown away.

Then, he turned around and looked at the battlefield in front of him, which was still shrouded in smoke and littered with corpses and blood.

There was no fear, no breakdown in his eyes.

All that remained was a numb, resigned despair.

"Hai."

He responded hoarsely, picked up his gun, and started walking.

Katayama Riichiro's gaze then turned to the other fleeing soldiers.

"Private Imai."

A tall, thin soldier trembled.

"Your father was a fisherman. He went out to sea last year and encountered a storm. His body was never found. Your mother raised three younger siblings on her own, and they relied entirely on the military pay you sent back home to make ends meet."

Imai's expression changed.

"If she finds out that you deserted on the battlefield and were court-martialed—"

Katayama Riichiro didn't continue.

But Imai understood.

He silently picked up the gun and followed behind Kameda.

"Private Ishida."

"Your fiancée works in a textile factory in Tokyo and writes to you every month, saying she'll get married when you go back."

Ishida clenched his fist.

"If she knew her fiancé was a coward—"

"I am not a coward!"

Ishida suddenly roared, his eyes turning bloodshot:

"I just...I just..."

"Just what?" Katayama Riichiro looked at him coldly. "Just afraid of dying?"

Ishida opened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.

"It's normal to be afraid of death." Katayama Riichiro's voice suddenly softened again.

"But soldiers of the Empire must not fear death. Your death will bring honor to your family. Your desertion will bring shame upon your entire family."

He paused:

"Think about your fiancée."

"If she knew you died in battle, she would cry for you, be proud of you, and guard your memorial tablet for the rest of her life."

"What will she think if she finds out you ran away?"

Ishida's body began to tremble.

In the end, he picked up the gun too.

One by one.

Katayama Riichiro pointed out the family backgrounds of these defeated soldiers as if he were calling out names, using their most cherished relatives and most treasured honors as bargaining chips.

Some soldiers have sick fathers at home.

Some soldiers have younger sisters at home who are waiting to be supported.

Some soldiers were the eldest sons of their families, bearing the responsibility of continuing the family line.

Everyone has a weakness.

Katayama Riichiro precisely identified these weaknesses, and then ruthlessly exploited them...