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

More than 20,000 Japanese soldiers, more than 30 tanks, and dozens of cannons—a dark mass stretching from the horizon all the way forward.

The Chinese soldiers on Liuxing's position watched the surging Japanese troops; some gripped their guns tightly, while others gritted their teeth.

No one spoke, because they knew it would be pointless to say anything.

The Japanese have staked everything on this final offensive. If they win, they can finally catch their breath.

We lost, and we lost everything.

Lei Gang stood at the front of the trench, turned around, and looked at the men in gray-blue uniforms.

"Brothers, Liuhang is the gateway to Baoshan and the key to Shanghai. If we lose Liuhang, Baoshan is gone. If we lose Baoshan, Shanghai is gone."

He pointed to the surging black ocean.

"So the Japanese were desperate to take down Liu Xing. Twenty thousand men, thirty tanks, dozens of cannons—they gave it their all."

Gu Yunshan stood there, gripping the large, blunted sword. The blood on the blade had dried, forming a dark red scab.

He looked at Lei Gang, Lin Mo, Lu Bei, Dong Yi, and Su Yue.

Deep down, he knew the answer. He had fought so many wars and knew the power of tanks, the power of artillery, and the power of sheer numbers.

No matter how powerful a tank is, it can't hold the line; no matter how accurate Su Yue's artillery shells are, they can't wipe out 20,000 men. No matter how far Lin Mo's sniper rifle is, it can't kill all the Japanese soldiers.

He knew that one tank like this wouldn't be enough to stop the 11th Division.

But he didn't say anything. He just looked at Lei Gang, at those eyes burning with flames.

"Brother Lei," he said, his voice hoarse, like sandpaper grinding against iron.

"I understand Liu Xing's importance. The brothers in the 021st Brigade all understand."

He paused, then lowered his head, looking at the blood-soaked ground beneath his feet—the land they had guarded for three days and three nights.

"We held out here for three days and three nights, fighting from five thousand men down to eight hundred, not because this place is important—but because this is Chinese soil."

He raised his head, turned around, and faced the people in gray-blue military uniforms.

"Brothers!" he shouted.

"The Japanese have launched a general offensive. Twenty thousand men, thirty tanks, and dozens of artillery pieces. We only have eight hundred men, one tank, a few sniper rifles, and a few artillery shells."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across each face. "Do you think we can hold on?"

No one speaks.

But everyone was watching him.

"We can't hold it," Gu Yunshan said.

But suddenly, his voice rose in pitch.

"Even if we can't hold on, we must hold on. Hold on until our last breath, until we run out of bullets, until we bleed our last drop. Because—"

He spoke each word with blood and fire, saying, "Behind me lies Nanjing, and all of China."

Chen Xiaogou squatted in the trench, holding his gun.

The gun was taller than him, with the butt resting against his chin and the muzzle pointing upwards.

He thought of Nanjing, a city he had never been to but had heard veterans talk about.

I heard there are city walls there, grayish-blue, very tall, and you can see the Yangtze River from them.

I heard there's the Qinhuai River there, with green water and weeping willows lining both banks. In spring, the willow catkins drift like snow.

I heard there's a Confucius Temple there, vendors selling candied hawthorns, vendors selling osmanthus cakes, opera singers, and storytellers.

He had never seen it, but he knew—the Japanese devils couldn't be allowed there. Their boots couldn't be allowed to tread on the stone slabs of the Qinhuai River, their bayonets couldn't be allowed to pierce the plaque of the Confucius Temple, and their military flags couldn't be allowed to be planted above the Zhonghua Gate.

He hugged the gun tightly, pressing his face against the cold butt. There was a crack in the butt, from when he hit a Japanese soldier on the head two days ago. He touched the crack with his finger, like touching a scar.

"Nanjing..." he murmured, "I've never been there. But I can't let the Japanese go."

Zhao Desheng lay prone in the trench, his severed leg bound with strips of cloth. The bleeding had stopped, but the wound still ached.

He rested his gun on the sandbag, his eyes pressed against the sights, watching the approaching black ocean.

A place flashed through his mind. Not Nanjing, but Wuhu, his hometown.

Wuhu is a small city located upstream of Nanjing, on the banks of the Yangtze River.

He remembered the bluestone path in front of his house, which was slippery when it rained, and he had fallen on it many times when he was a child.

I remember the steamed bun stall at the alley entrance, with its thin skin and generous filling; one bite and the soup would splatter all over the table. I remember his mother sitting at the door shelling edamame, chatting with the neighbor lady as she did so.

He hadn't been back for three years. He didn't know if the bluestone road was still there, if the steamed bun shop was still open, or if his mother was still peeling edamame.

But he knew that if the Japanese crossed Nanjing, Wuhu would be lost. His mother would be lost. He gritted his teeth and pressed the butt of his rifle firmly against his shoulder.

"Wuhu," he murmured, "I really want to go home."

"Who doesn't want to go home?" Old Liu squatted in the trench; he wanted to go home too.

He traveled to many places, fought many battles, and retreated many times. He retreated from North China to Central China, and from Central China to East China.

Every time we retreat, we lose a piece of land. Every piece of land we lose means a lot of people die.

He didn't want to back out anymore.

He didn't want to see Japanese bayonets planted on Chinese soil again.

I don't want to hear Chinese women crying under the guns of the Japanese invaders anymore.

I don't want to see Chinese children crying on the tip of Japanese bayonets anymore.

"China," he murmured, "I can't let the Japanese devils trample on even an inch of Chinese land again."

These are Chinese soldiers who left their hometowns to defend Shanghai.

They stood there, guns in hand, watching the black ocean surge in.

Some people are thinking about Nanjing, some about Wuhu, some about Chongqing, and some about places even further away.

Some people are thinking of their elderly mothers at home, some are thinking of their brides-to-be, and some are thinking of their newborn babies they've never even seen. Some are thinking of the old locust tree at the village entrance, some are thinking of the nearly ripe sorghum in the fields, and some are thinking of the big carp in the river that they can never catch.

They had different ideas, but they all thought the same thing—they couldn't let the Japanese devils get through. They couldn't let those beasts trample on even an inch of Chinese land again.

At that moment, Lei Gang saw a soldier from Northeast China squatting in the corner of the trench.

This soldier is named Guo Jinliang. He is from Heilongjiang Province. He is over 1.8 meters tall and has broad shoulders and a thick waist. But at this moment, he is huddled in the trench, like a bear locked in a cage.

He held a captured Type 38 rifle in his hand, with Japanese characters engraved on the barrel.

His eyes were red, not from crying, but from hatred.

He thought of September 18th. That autumn, he was still an apprentice in Shenyang, learning to be a blacksmith.

That night, he heard the sound of cannons coming from the north, booming like thunder.

When he went outside, he saw that the streets were full of Japanese soldiers.

He saw his neighbor, Grandpa Wang, being smashed to the ground by a Japanese soldier's rifle butt, his mouth full of blood. He saw the female teacher from the elementary school being dragged out of the classroom by the Japanese soldiers and onto the street.

He rushed out and used a freshly forged hot iron to stab the Japanese soldier inside the stomach, saving the female teacher.

Later, they went into hiding in their own homes and on their own land.

Finally, he stopped hiding and joined the army, coming to Shanghai.

Before leaving, the woman he had saved gave him a talisman.

He always carried it with him.

"September 18th..." Guo Jinliang murmured, his voice sounding as if squeezed from his throat, tinged with blood and rust.

His voice lowered. It wasn't speaking, it was singing.

The melody was slow and deep, like the Songhua River flowing beneath the ice.

My home is on the Songhua River in Northeast China.

There are forests and coal mines there.

And there are soybeans and sorghum covering the mountains and fields.

My home is on the Songhua River in Northeast China.

My compatriots are there.

And then there are my aging parents…