Spy Wars: I am the Captain of the Military Police

Chapter 936 Shoot it down immediately

He skillfully climbed into the cockpit, and miraculously, the plane still had some fuel left.

He started the engine, but the malfunction persisted, and the plane shook violently, unable to take off normally.

But Wang Changshuan had no intention of taking off. He suddenly pushed the throttle to the maximum and maneuvered the swaying plane not toward the runway, but straight toward a Japanese fuel transport convoy that had just rushed into the airport and was gathering!

"For Nanjing!!" These were his last words.

The out-of-control battle was like a giant incendiary bomb, plunging headlong into the heart of the Japanese convoy at an astonishing speed.

"boom--!!!!!"

A deafening roar erupted as a massive fireball shot into the air, followed by a series of explosions! The truck, fully loaded with fuel, transformed into a giant torch, its flames engulfing the surrounding Japanese soldiers and vehicles.

The shockwave from the explosion even shattered the glass of a distant hangar.

The towering flames resembled the final and most tragic funeral fireworks display when Nanjing fell.

The fire raged above the Ming Palace Airport, turning half of Nanjing's sky red.

All the survivors who witnessed this scene, whether Chinese or Japanese, were deeply moved by this resolute sacrifice.

The flames also illuminated faces filled with despair or contortion.

The gunfire in Nanjing did not completely cease as the Japanese army had anticipated.

The fierce siege that had lasted for many days seemed to have ended, and the sun still rose in the smoke-filled sky, casting its dark red light on this ravaged land.

The massive city walls, riddled with holes, resembled the torn shell of a giant, silently proclaiming the fall of the capital.

Zhonghua Gate, Guanghua Gate, Zhongshan Gate... Most of the once majestic city gate towers have been reduced to ruins, with only charred wood and twisted steel bars stubbornly pointing to the sky.

On the street, the khaki-colored Japanese troops marched in columns, their leather boots clattering rhythmically on the rubble and broken glass.

Tanks and armored vehicles rumbled over the wreckage of the barricades, the last barrier made up of tram cars, sandbags, furniture, and the remains of the defenders.

The smell in the air was complex and terrifying.

Thick gunpowder smoke, the lingering smell of burning fire, the stench of charred corpses, and an increasingly heavy stench of blood.

Under the eaves of many houses along the streets, the bodies of executed Chinese soldiers were hanging, a so-called "deterrent" act by the Japanese army, but also a silent curse emanating from this dying city.

However, amidst this eerie atmosphere of deathly silence intertwined with the clamor of the occupying forces, sporadic gunshots still occasionally rang out from the depths of the city.

A sniper shot suddenly fired from a street corner, a brief exchange of fire that erupted and quickly subsided in an alley.

These voices remind everyone that occupation is not the same as conquest.

Among these sporadic acts of resistance, the most tenacious and enduring perhaps came from the vast and ancient city sewer system, which was right under people's noses.

Zhou Zhenqiang, deputy company commander of a company in the 88th Division, was a farmer from Hunan who was unable to retreat with the majority of his troops when the city fell.

He initially gathered around seven soldiers, all of whom were remnants of various scattered units.

Faced with the overwhelming tide of Japanese troops, Zhou Zhenqiang made a difficult decision: instead of breaking through to the almost certain death at Xiaguan, he chose to go down into the labyrinthine sewers and continue his resistance.

"Brothers, the Japanese devils control the area above, but this area is our Chinese territory! We can't let the Japanese devils think that Nanjing has fallen so easily!" Zhou Zhenqiang's words were simple yet powerful.

They carried little ammunition, only a few dozen bullets and a few grenades per person.

Supplies were almost nonexistent.

Nanjing's sewer network is intricate and complex, with some sections consisting of brick and stone structures from the Ming and Qing dynasties. These areas are dark, foul-smelling, and the water can reach waist-deep in some places.

Rats and filth are commonplace, but this place has become their only refuge.

During the day, they huddled in drier side roads or maintenance wells, listening to the vibrations of the Japanese troops marching overhead and the roar of tank tracks...

Each sound was like a hammer blow to their hearts.

Their fighting style was simple yet effective: they were active at night and hibernating during the day.

Using their familiarity with the terrain of some underground pipe networks, they pry open some secluded manhole covers at night and emerge from the ground like ghosts.

The targets were usually scattered Japanese sentries, lone communications soldiers, or patrol squads.

A sniper shot, a swift and sudden attack, the battle was ended with bayonets and entrenching tools, a small amount of weapons and ammunition were quickly seized, and then they disappeared into the dark sewer entrance.

They were like a persistent ailment; although the actual casualties they caused were limited, they made the Japanese army nervous, forcing them to increase the number of sentries at important strongholds and even making them afraid to carry out small-scale activities at night.

This guerrilla warfare continued indefinitely.

Ammunition is exhausted.

Eight men stood with their backs against the slippery, cold well wall, facing the bayonets of the Japanese soldiers swarming in from above and the pipe entrance.

"Brothers, there's nothing more to say! Killing one is enough, killing two is a bonus!" Zhou Zhenqiang roared, raised his rifle with bayonets fixed, and was the first to charge towards the enemy.

A desperate hand-to-hand battle unfolds at the bottom of the well.

Roars, the clash of bayonets, and the screams of the dying echoed in the confined space.

In the end, everything fell silent. Zhou Zhenqiang and seven soldiers all died in battle, their blood staining the water at the bottom of the well.

. . . . . . . . .

In what was nominally the center of the occupied zone, the former Presidential Palace of the Nationalist Government, General Matsui Iwane, commander of the Japanese Central China Area Army, was preparing to hold a symbolic "entry ceremony" and military parade to show the world his "illustrious achievements".

The square had been roughly cleaned up, but the traces of the war were still undeniable.

The Japanese troops were lined up neatly, their military flags waving. Matsui Iwane, surrounded by his officers, rode on horseback, attempting to project the aura of a conqueror.

However, when he looked smugly at the main building of the Presidential Palace, his expression suddenly changed.

At the top of that towering flagpole, a flag of the Republic of China, with a blue sky, a white sun, and a red earth, though blackened by gunfire and smoke, torn at the edges, riddled with bullet holes, and as tattered as a broken cloud, still fluttered in the cold north wind!

This flag was raised by a few scouts who were unable to evacuate during the final chaos of the city's fall. They risked their lives to break through the area that the Japanese army had not yet fully controlled.

This was the last Chinese national flag to be raised in the heart of Nanjing after its fall.

Matsui Iwane's face turned from red to green, feeling extremely humiliated and angry.

At the solemn ceremony of entering the city, enemy flags were flying! He gave a stern order to shoot them down immediately.

The Japanese machine guns and rifles all fired at the flag that was held high above.