The hills around Isahaya had become an abattoir. For two days, the trapped and encircled Japanese Second Army had thrown itself against the immovable Qing lines to the south, their fanatical bravery a testament to the spirit they held so dear. And for two days, they had been systematically, methodically slaughtered. The once-green fields at the foot of the hills were now a churned, bloody morass, littered with the bodies of Japanese soldiers who had failed to cross the deadly killing ground.
In his command bunker, which now felt more like a tomb, General Nogi Marasuke stared at the battle map, his face a mask of exhausted despair. The full horror of his situation was now crushingly clear. He was the commander of a caged army, and the bars of the cage were made of Qing steel and fire.
"We cannot break through to the south," he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. "Their machine guns and disciplined rifle fire are… impenetrable. Every charge has been a failure."
A subordinate, a young colonel whose uniform was caked with dirt and whose eyes were wide with a kind of shell-shocked terror, spoke up. "General, perhaps we should try a breakout to the north? Back the way we came? The main Chinese army there is large, but they may not expect a direct assault from our positions."
"It is our only chance," Nogi agreed, a flicker of desperate hope igniting within him. It was a faint hope, but better than none at all. "It will be a slaughter, but a slim chance of survival is better than the certainty of death by starvation or artillery. Prepare the men. We will gather our remaining strength and launch a full-scale assault on the northern lines at dawn. We will punch a hole through them or die trying."
The plan was born of desperation, a final, convulsive effort from a dying army. Throughout the night, Japanese officers moved through the trenches, rallying their men for one last, glorious charge. They would not die like rats in a hole; they would die on their feet, facing the enemy, swords in hand.
What they didn't know was that their enemy was not waiting for them. He was already moving to close the final lock on their cage.
As the Japanese prepared for their northward assault, the Qing army to the north was on the move. Under the cover of darkness, General Song Qing's artillery, guided by the Emperor's precise orders, was being repositioned. The massive guns were dragged by teams of straining men and horses onto the flanks of the Japanese position, creating a devastating arc of fire.
At the same time, from the south, a new battery of guns, brought in by Meng Tian's forces, was being set up. They now commanded a direct line of sight into the rear of the Japanese trench system.
From a distant hill, miles away, Qin Shi Huang watched the final preparations through a powerful telescope. A telegraph key clicked away beside him as his observers relayed information.
"General Song reports his artillery is in position, Your Majesty," an aide said.
"General Meng reports his southern battery is ready to fire," said another.
QSH nodded slowly, his face illuminated by the faint glow of a lantern. "They sought a glorious, honorable battle," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "A clash of spirit and steel. Instead, they will be given an industrial process of extermination. This is the fate of all who cling to outdated notions of honor in the face of overwhelming, logical force." He turned to his telegraph operator. "Send the signal. To both batteries. Commence firing."
As the first rays of dawn touched the eastern sky, just as the Japanese were forming up for their desperate breakout charge, the world erupted. It began not as a single boom, but as a rolling, continuous thunder that came from two directions at once. Shells began to rain down on the Japanese positions not just from the front, but from the flanks and, most terrifyingly, from the rear.
The Japanese trenches, designed to repel a frontal assault, offered no protection from this multi-directional deluge of high explosives. The hills became a volcanic hellscape. Bunkers collapsed, trenches caved in, and men were torn apart where they stood.
In General Nogi's command post, the earth shook so violently that maps and lanterns were thrown from the tables. A shell exploded just outside, and the wooden support beams of the bunker splintered, showering the occupants with dirt and debris.
"It's a death trap!" the young colonel screamed over the unending roar. "They are firing on us from all sides! There is nowhere to run! Nowhere to hide!"
The breakout attempt dissolved before it could even begin. The Japanese army, no longer a coherent fighting force, was reduced to small pockets of terrified men, huddling in the deepest parts of their trenches as the world came apart around them. Their fanatical bravery was useless against an enemy they couldn't see, an enemy who was calmly and methodically erasing them from existence with mathematics and chemistry.
The bombardment lasted for three hours. When it finally stopped, a terrifying silence fell over the hills. From the north and the south, the Qing infantry began their advance. They were not charging. They moved forward slowly, cautiously, their rifles at the ready, moving from crater to crater. They met with almost no resistance.
The Japanese Second Army had ceased to exist. In the trenches, they found scenes of utter devastation. Some units had been annihilated completely, buried under collapsed earthworks. Others had surrendered, throwing down their weapons and kneeling in stunned, shell-shocked silence. And in some pockets, the last remnants of samurai honor played out its final, tragic act. Small groups of officers and soldiers, seeing that all was lost, had committed ritual suicide, their bodies lying in neat rows, their swords clutched in their hands.
A Qing patrol, led by an officer from the Penal Vanguard, cautiously approached the collapsed remains of General Nogi's command bunker. They cleared the entrance and stepped inside. In the dim, dust-filled light, they saw him. General Nogi Marasuke sat upright behind his broken table, his uniform still immaculate despite the chaos. His senior staff lay around him. He had not used his pistol. In his hands, he held his family's ancestral wakizashi. Following the ancient rite, he had plunged it into his own stomach. He had met his ancestors with his honor, as he defined it, intact.
The Qing officer, a man who had once been a major himself, looked at the scene not with triumph, but with a kind of weary, grim respect. He had seen firsthand the price of his own commander's foolish pride. Now he was seeing the price of this Japanese general's courage. He turned to his men. "Cover them," he said quietly.
The battle was over. The Japanese Second Army was gone. But the cost had been written in the language of utter annihilation, a lesson that would echo far beyond the blood-soaked hills of Isahaya.