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

The close-quarters combat ended quickly.

From the moment the 7th Company of the 3rd Battalion leaped out of the trenches to the moment the last Japanese soldier fell, only a few minutes passed.

But those few minutes felt as long as years soaked in blood.

On the battlefield, the smoke of gunpowder mixed with the smell of blood rose slowly in the afternoon sun.

The soldiers of the 7th Company of the 3rd Battalion were all wounded and covered in blood.

Supporting each other, they dragged their exhausted bodies back to the trenches, step by step.

Every step left a deep red footprint on the blood-soaked, scorched earth.

Someone had lost an arm, but used his other hand to hold the gun of his fallen comrade.

Some people had their abdomens slashed open with bayonets, and were tightly bound with strips of torn cloth; blood was still seeping out.

Some people had blood all over their faces, and it was impossible to tell whether it was their own or that of the enemy.

But no one fell.

Not a single person fell behind.

They walked in silence, their backs ramrod straight, like a group of war gods, scarred but never yielding, who had returned from a sea of ​​blood and hell.

In the trenches, several soldiers who were too badly wounded to fight struggled to their feet and used their still-functioning hands to pull in their brothers who had returned from the bloody battle.

There was no cheering.

There was no celebration.

Only silent, heavy breathing and suppressed sobs.

The airspace above the position was deathly silent.

Only the whistling sound of the wind blowing through the bullet holes and the distant, lingering smoke of gunpowder could be heard.

The embroiderer sat in the control room of "Qilin 102", her hands still resting on the control levers of the remote weapon station.

But her eyes were fixed on that blood-red land where the fighting had just ended.

It's etched into the wounded backs of those who helped each other walk back to the trenches.

Nailed to that one eye wrapped with a blood-soaked strip of cloth,

Leaning on a Japanese military sword, though swaying precariously, he still stood tall like a javelin in the center of the battlefield.

After supervising the safe withdrawal of all the brothers,

He turned around last, limping towards the one-eyed company commander in the trench.

The embroiderer's throat felt as if something was blocking it.

She suddenly remembered the black and white photos she saw in the military history museum when she enlisted.

The Chinese soldiers in those photos, wearing worn-out gray-blue uniforms and holding simple weapons, stood behind dilapidated fortifications, their eyes tired but resolute.

The caption below the photo is very simple:

"During the Battle of Shanghai, officers and soldiers of a certain unit defended their position to the death, and the entire company perished."

"During the Battle of Nanjing, a regiment of soldiers fought a street battle with the Japanese army, and all of them were killed in action."

"During the Battle of Xuzhou, officers and soldiers of a certain battalion resisted the Japanese mechanized forces and all of them were killed."

At that time, she only felt a sense of tragedy.

But at this moment, when she saw these Chinese soldiers from 1937 with her own eyes, and witnessed how, despite being at a complete disadvantage, they fought to the death in the most primitive way, risking their lives for each other—

Only then did she truly understand what kind of flesh and blood, what kind of indomitable soul, and what kind of... perseverance intertwined with despair and hope lay behind the word "tragic".

Before the "afterlife" arrives.

In 1937, there was no "Kirin" tank, no precision-guided weapons, and no information-based warfare.

There are tens of thousands, or even hundreds of thousands, of Chinese soldiers like this.

They used such simple rifles, homemade grenades, and heavy broadswords.

It is with such flesh and blood.

It is this almost foolish courage—knowing that death is inevitable, yet still rushing forward—that drives us forward.

Inch by inch, they blocked the Japanese army's iron torrent.

Day by day, they held back the Japanese army's arrogant dream of "conquering China in three months".

They gave their lives to buy this suffering nation a chance to catch its breath.

With their blood, they watered the last vestiges of dignity for this shattered nation.

The embroiderer's eyes reddened.

Her voice, amplified through the loudspeaker, resounded across the battlefield:

"Future soldiers, pay tribute to the 7th Company of the 3rd Battalion."

In the trench, Chen Dashan, who had just been pulled up, was leaning against a sandbag, catching his breath. Hearing this, he looked up, his one eye gazing in the direction of the Qilin tank.

Chen Dashan was stunned for a moment.

Then, he grinned and smiled.

His smile was unsightly, which aggravated the wound on his face, causing him to grimace in pain.

But he still smiled.

Behind him, the soldiers of the 7th Company of the 3rd Battalion, who had just experienced a bloody battle and were still able to move, these veterans who had crawled out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood, these men who had long been accustomed to life and death and whose emotions had become numb, suddenly had tears welling up in their eyes when they heard the embroiderer's words.

Someone lowered their head and wiped their face hard with their blood-stained sleeve.

Someone straightened their back with all their might, even though the pain from the wound made them sweat profusely.

Someone gripped the gun tightly, their knuckles turning white from the force.

An indescribable emotion surged within the hearts of these wounded soldiers.

That's the feeling of being understood.

It is a source of pride to be recognized.

It is something that future generations have never forgotten, and all the sacrifices were worthwhile...

I feel relieved.