Spy Wars: I am the Captain of the Military Police

Shimonoseki Wharf.

As the Japanese offensive intensified, the order to retreat for the Nanjing defenders was finally issued, but it was too late; order had already broken down.

Zhongshan North Road, leading to the riverbank, and the Yijiangmen area were crowded with routed soldiers and panicked citizens. The crowds trampled each other, a truly horrific sight.

The Xiaguan Wharf, a transportation hub connecting the north and south, has now become a vortex of despair.

The remnants of the 51st Division, ordered to cover the main force's retreat, fought their way back under the command of Division Commander Wang Yaowu, and finally reached the riverbank.

The scene before them chilled them to the bone.

There were only a handful of boats on the river; most of the ferries had been relocated or destroyed by higher authorities in advance to prevent them from falling into enemy hands.

Tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians crowded on the cold riverbank, gazing at the wide, turbid river, trapped in a desperate situation.

"Sappers! Gather everything that can float! Build rafts!" Wang Yaowu stood on a slightly higher mound, his voice distorted with anxiety and anger.

Even this general, known for his bravery, could not hide his grief and indignation at this moment.

The engineers worked tirelessly to dismantle the doors and beams of houses along the river, and even moved empty wooden crates and gasoline drums from warehouses, using leg wraps and ropes to barely tie them together into makeshift rafts.

These makeshift rafts were extremely unstable and could capsize at any moment in the cold river water and chaotic crowds.

The vanguard of the Japanese army had already reached the riverbank, and machine gun bullets swept across the dense crowd like a torrential downpour.

People fell in droves after being shot, and the shallow waters along the riverbank were quickly stained red.

Cries, wails, splashes, and gunfire mingled together, like a sonata from hell.

Wang Yaowu's mount, a brown warhorse that had been with him for many years, was startled by the huge explosion and chaos. It neighed, raised its front hooves, and charged into the crowded people, about to trample the soldiers.

"You beast!" Wang Yaowu's eyes were bloodshot. Without hesitation, he drew his Browning pistol from his waist, aimed it at his beloved horse's head, and pulled the trigger.

"Bang!" The gunshot rang out crisply.

The warhorse let out a mournful neigh and collapsed to the ground with a crash.

Wang Yaowu didn't even glance at his fallen mount. He turned to the panicked soldiers around him and roared, "We don't have enough boats! What use are horses! Today, I, Wang, will live and die with you brothers! Those with rafts, go first. Those who can swim, stay with me and continue the fight!"

The division commander's actions temporarily stabilized the morale of the troops, which was on the verge of collapse.

Some soldiers who could swim took off their heavy uniforms and equipment, wearing only a single layer of clothing, and resolutely jumped into the icy river to try to cross.

Many others relied on simple door panels, wooden buckets, or even just a few pieces of wood to row with all their might towards the other side.

However, the Yangtze River is extremely cold in January, and the current is rapid.

First came the bodies of those shot, then the drowning victims who had lost their strength. More and more corpses floated on the river, severely hindering the progress of subsequent rafts and swimmers.

Many people did not die from gunshot wounds, but rather from a rapid drop in body temperature and convulsions in their limbs as they swam to the middle of the river, eventually succumbing to exhaustion and sinking.

On the river, floating military caps, clothes, and stiff corpses created a horrific scene.

Wang Yaowu personally picked up a light machine gun and led the last guard platoon, relying on the cargo piles and wrecked boats on the riverbank, to put up a final stand against the pursuing Japanese troops.

Bullets whizzed past, and the soldiers around him fell one by one.

He knew that retreat was impossible; the only option now was to fight to the death, to buy even a minute more time for his brothers to cross the river. Gazing at Nanjing, which resembled a giant tomb under the blood-red sunset, two streams of tears flowed from his eyes.

Gunfire gradually subsided at Xinjiekou, and the tram barricades were eventually crushed by Japanese tanks.

The Dacheng Hall of the Confucius Temple partially collapsed during the artillery fire, and the memorial tablet of the Sage Confucius was buried under the rubble along with the remains of the defending soldiers.

The river at Xiaguan was clogged with floating corpses, and the blood stained the water a light brownish-red that lingered for days.

The street fighting in Nanjing did not completely destroy the invaders, but it demonstrated the defenders' indomitable will in the face of adversity in an extremely brutal manner.

The struggle for every street, every building, and every relic is soaked in blood, becoming part of the city's tragic memory.

On January 9, after days of relentless bombing and fierce fighting, many sections of Nanjing's city walls collapsed.

With the chaos in the garrison's command structure and the issuance of retreat orders, the main force of the Japanese army poured into the city from Zhonghua Gate, Guanghua Gate, Zhongshan Gate and other places like a flood bursting its banks.

An ancient capital with a history of thousands of years was thus plunged into a purgatory of blood and fire.

dawn.

The sky was no longer clear as usual; thick smoke, like a filthy shroud, hung low over the city.

The sun struggled to pierce through the haze, casting not light, but a sickly, dark red halo, as if the sky itself were bleeding.

General Matsui Iwane, commander of the Central China Area Army, rode his horse onto the ruins of Zhonghua Gate, surrounded by a group of officers and press officers.

The city gate tower had been reduced to ruins, with charred wooden beams and twisted metal still smoldering and emitting wisps of smoke. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder, blood, and burnt objects.

Horse hooves crunched on the broken bricks and tiles, occasionally kicking up twisted rifle parts, shattered helmets, or unrecognizable limbs.

Matsui Iwane tried to maintain a conqueror's dignity and calm on his face.

Conquering the capital of an enemy state is an honor that any general dreams of.

He imagined himself as a famous ancient general, receiving cheers under the Arc de Triomphe.

However, the scene before him made it difficult for him to feel truly happy.

The devastation of the ruins exceeded his expectations.

Moreover... a sharp sword was already at his head...

The warhorse suddenly snorted uneasily, its hoof slipping on a hard, charred object.

Matsui Iwane looked down and saw a thread-bound book that had been mostly burned. The cover was gone, but the vertical regular script on the inner pages was still faintly discernible.

An adjutant dismounted, picked it up, glanced at it, and respectfully handed it over: "Your Excellency, this is a collection of Chinese poems."

Matsui Iwane took the half-burnt, tattered scroll, his fingers brushing against the smoke-blackened pages. A few familiar Chinese characters caught his eye: "The country is broken, but the mountains and rivers remain; spring comes to the city, but the grass and trees grow deep..." and "War has raged for three months; a letter from home is worth a thousand pieces of gold..."

It is a poem by Du Fu.

He himself has always admired Han studies and is no stranger to the deep sorrow and grief for his country expressed in Du Fu's poems.

At this moment, standing on these fresh ruins, holding this half-copy of "Three Hundred Tang Poems," a sense of absurd and sharp irony struck him.

The poem of civilization stands in stark contrast to the barbaric scene of destruction beneath our feet.

He expressionlessly tossed the tattered book back into the ruins, as if trying to shake off the unease in his mind and the panic of an impending crisis.

Looking up into the distance, Matsui Iwane's brows furrowed deeply.