Private Bedros Sahakian

Journal Entry 40

July 27, 1932, Wednesday

It's over. More or less.

On the night of the 25th we were sucker punched at that bridge we were holding. It was KMT fighters.

It was just another two hours before midnight when the attack came. They took us off guard.

First they crept toward our forward position on the opposite side of the bridge then threw grenades. Multiple explosions ignited one after another.

Then those rebels sprung up, roaring with cold steel in hand. They charged and overran our pals at the first barricade if any of them survived the grenade barrage.

Soon more followed behind them from hidden positions.

I was resting on the second barricade in the center of the bridge when it all happened. We opened up on them with everything we got.

Then several canisters popped right into our post, bursting a thick cloud of smoke. I barely saw anything and was coughing up a storm as did the others.

They took advantage of it, coming in like a flood. Desperately we shot at any silhouette in the smoke but they just kept coming. Grenades were thrown at us and we threw back as many as we could but not all of them.

One small bomb took out our machine gun and its two man crew. Without that the KMT got on top of us.

It was utter bedlam from then on.

You know back in basic some fellow trainees had wondered if bayonets were necessary anymore. Of course they learned to say that within earshot of the drill instructors but still there was always some wise guy who brought it up.

They would point to the last war when machine guns and grenades often proved to be more useful. Well that night all those drills with the bayonet and hand to hand combat really came in handy.

There was yelling, screaming in multiple tongues as the melee ensued. No street brawl nor bar fight I ever been in before was compared to what followed that night.

We beat, stabbed and clubbed each other to death with whatever was within grasp. From blades, rifle butts, shovels and helmets.

Fists and teeth were even used.

All of us and them at that point were more like two rival wolf packs tearing into one another than people.

When it comes to this sort of fighting there are no rules.

Each side poured in reinforcements, joining this deadly brawl within the smoke cloud.

Say what you want about the Kuomintang but they're no pushovers. They gave as much as they got.

Anyone that wasn't wearing a marine uniform within reach I bayoneted before losing the rifle when one rebel tackled me. We rolled around wrestling before he got on top and nearly gouged my eyes out.

I managed to grab a brick and bashed his head with it, getting him off me. Not gonna lie I was so consumed with rage that I jumped on the rebel, slamming the brick down on him, again, again and again even though he wasn't moving anymore.

Then behind me I heard a pained scream and saw another rebel but stabbed through from behind and he dropped. I saw it was Hector.

Seeing his face brought me back to my senses. I dropped the brick with my right hand wet with blood. He nodded before tossing me a shovel and we charged further in.

Meanwhile the smoke was clearing and the rest of our forces on the third barricade and surrounding buildings were now able to pour lead on the hostiles. Still the remaining revolutionaries, all of them pressed their attack.

They kept throwing themselves at us with reckless abandonment. They knew they were cornered between us and the warlord troops so I guess most decided to go down swinging against us, the Fourth Marines.

One of the craziest sights I ever saw was a rebel shouting at the top of his lungs as he rushed forward into the bridge's center with no weapon, just wielding the Kuomintang flag.

He was shot to pieces and dropped face first onto the pavement. But then the rebel was somehow still breathing and crawled toward us, trying to drag the battered flag with him.

The sight of it caused me to pause. That fighter truly believed in his cause.

A minute later he collapsed entirely, lifeless but hand still firmly grasped to the flag.

The last few fighters finally lost heart and fled off the bridge. They didn't get far though because they were gunned down from the other side.

Then we saw a German officer and dozens of borrowed Chinese soldiers come out of the cover. It didn't take us but a minute to realize they must've arrived earlier but instead of helping us they stayed put and watched this slaughter like it was a game to them.

Just thinking of it boils my blood.

The Kraut officer didn't even bother to come over to explain but instead he just moved about over the rebel bodies on his side of the river and shot his pistol at each of them. The thugs with him dragged away three survivors as they tried to struggle but to no avail into the night.

By the morning they were all gone. Half of the bridge was strewn with dead and wounded men on both sides.

We spent all day tending to the latter and clearing the bridge. The bodies were piled up in trucks and depending on who they had been sent to seperate locations.

The flag was almost taken as a trophy by some of the guys but Gunny told them to leave that banner with its wielder.

"Let him be buried with it."

I didn't fail to notice the begrudging respect in his voice when the sergeant said so. We carried out the order.

We removed the pole and wrapped the flag on the dead rebel before stacking him with his dead comrades.

From what we heard later the uprising ended that very day. We won but the cost was high, too high. It certainly doesn't feel like a win, not like how victories are portrayed on film.

I just can't help but briefly think of what this failed revolt could lead to. I found no answers.

Now it's time to find Sachi. I can only hope that she made it through this.