The Lanjiang River rages on, telling that legend of heroes...

Although the 63rd Division suffered heavy casualties, they still fought to the end and refused to retreat!

This is a scene from in Lanxi, Zhejiang, during the Zhejiang-Jiangxi Campaign in May 1942.

Defensive side: the 63rd Division of the 49th Army of the National Revolutionary Army.

Offensive side: the 15th Division of the Japanese Expeditionary Army to China.

Lanxi is located in the central-western part of Zhejiang, a strategic choke point along the Zhejiang-Jiangxi Railway and the Qiantang River transport route. Facing the enemy’s frenzied assault, the 63rd Division of the 49th Army, tasked with defending Lanxi, fought with unyielding valor. Despite being vastly outnumbered, they held the line for two days, allowing the Japanese to advance only a few kilometers. Eventually, the opposing forces reached a stalemate at Yilitan, just outside Lanxi.​​

Originally, the division was ordered to hold Lanxi for just one day. By now, they had already defended it for four.​

The strategic objective had been achieved. On the evening of the fourth day, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, with torrential rain pouring down in waves. The troops received orders to withdraw in echelons under cover of darkness. The 8th Independent Engineer Battalion of the 146th Division, 21st Army, which came to reinforce, was tasked with covering their retreat.

After the 63rd Division completed their withdrawal, in accordance with the battle plan, Huang Shiwei, acting battalion commander of the 8th Battalion, led over 20 soldiers to lay out a "minefield".

At just 21 years old, Huang was already a seasoned veteran with five years of military service. Five years earlier, as a high school senior in Chengdu, he had seen a recruitment notice for "battlefield service personnel." Despite being the only son in his family, he left behind a suicide note and resolutely enlisted.​

He first studied blasting at the Jiangxi Engineering School. After that, having gone through numerous battles, he became a well-known "blasting expert", rising to the rank of major.

The mines they carried were new-type ones trial-produced by the 20th Factory of the Ordnance Department in Chongqing. As an expert, Huang knew each mine’s capabilities intimately. These mines were packed with TNT, highly destructive, and could be set to four trigger modes adjustable via a dial. The first was the most sensitive, detonating at the slightest touch—ideal for eliminating enemy infantry. The second required heavy pressure, perfect for trucks and horses. The other two were triggered by tripwires or electrical ignition, suited for ambushes...​

Covered by darkness, Huang and his men waded across the raging Lanjiang River, bamboo baskets laden with mines on their heads. Enemy shells streaked through the night sky, leaving streaks of scarlet. Some exploded right beside the warriors, yet they did not stop. On the muddy path, they pressed forward swiftly.

After receiving the mine-laying mission, Huang had already sneaked into the site and scouted the terrain during the day, meticulously planning each mine’s placement.​​

One by one, the mines were set according to his plan—except for one, mine No. 4A. He saved it for the small mound at the crossroads.

The surrounding terrain was relatively flat, only this small mound was a commanding height—the best spot to observe the surrounding area. He reasoned: upon reaching the three-way intersection, the Japanese commander would surely climb it to survey the next route. Given the muddy conditions, he would definitely be on horseback. If he stepped on mine No. 4A, both man and horse would be thrown into the air.

After laying the mines and carefully camouflaging them, Huang led his men away...

Huang's judgment was spot on. The next day, Sakai prepared to lead another assault, only to find his opponents gone. Shocked, he galloped toward the front lines with his guards.​

Eighty-three years later, historical records reveal Sakai’s photo: round tortoiseshell glasses framing a deceptively scholarly face. But in truth, he was a monster whose crimes were too numerous to recount.

Born in Tokyo in 1891, Sakai was a descendant of the Sengoku-era samurai Sakai Tadatsugu. He graduated from the Imperial Japanese Army Academy in 1911. After the “Marco Polo Bridge Incident” in 1937, he invaded China as commander of the 4th Infantry Regiment.​​

His atrocities were unspeakable: his troops implemented the "Three All’s Policy" (kill all, burn all, loot all) wherever they went. In one raid, he even organized a rape competition among his men...​​ In the spring of 1942, as commander of the 15th Division, he set his sights on Lanxi, a millennia-old trading hub known as the "confluence of three rivers and gateway to seven provinces." Little did he know, it would become his grave.​​

On the morning of May 28, Sakai rode to Yilitan with his guards. Suspicious, he scanned the area with binoculars before ordering a probing attack. Artillery, grenade launchers, and machine guns roared in unison. ​ When the gunfire died down, all that could be seen was rain and fog, the quiet gurgle of the Lanjiang River, and green trees laden with red bayberries on the riverbank—while the surrounding fields lay silent.

Finally reassured, Sakai smirked and spurred his horse toward the mound. Reaching the top, he couldn’t resist showing off his riding skills, twisting his wrist and pulling the reins for a flourish. But at the instant the horse’s hooves struck the ground, there was a thunderous boom—and both man and horse were hurled into the air by a massive blast wave.

The guards shouted wildly and rushed toward the mound, only to trigger more mines. Booms echoed all around...​

On September 28, Yan'an's Jiefang Daily published a front-page report: "We Killed Japanese Lieutenant General Sakai in the Battle of Lanxi". It also noted that the Japanese army suffered thousands of casualties in the battle.

The article did not mention how Sakai died. For a long time, the Japanese invaders kept his death a closely guarded secret.

After the Battle of Lanxi, Huang moved with his troops to fight in western Zhejiang, northern Jiangxi, and southern Anhui until the victory of the War of Resistance against Japanese Aggression.

Shortly after, Chiang Kai-shek launched the civil war. Huang, unwilling to fight his countrymen, left the army and returned to Chengdu, enrolling in the Southwest Cooperative College. After liberation, he worked as an accountant at the Chengdu No. 1 Brewery, living quietly.​​

Having loved writing and painting since middle school, his works now carried the depth and vicissitudes of life. In his spare time, he often exchanged verses with friends, enjoying a leisurely life.

In 1984, the cause of Sakai's death was finally declassified. The book Japanese Expeditionary Force in China, compiled by the War History Office of the Defense Research Institute of Japan's Defense Agency, revealed the details of his death, noting specifically: "The death of an active division commander was unprecedented since the army’s founding."

The next year, 64-year-old Huang accidentally came across the Japanese records and saw his own name. The elderly man, who had weathered countless storms, picked up his brush and wrote Jiangchengzi · Those Who Wage Endless Wars Shall Perish: "Japanese chief Sakai, a war madman; drums resound, horse hooves hurry. Purple ribbons and carved saddles, ten thousand riders cross Lanjiang River. To earn the Emperor's praise as a tiger general, he drives his strong army to attack Shouchang. Drunk, baring his chest, he marches to the battlefield—like a leopard chasing sheep, arrogant and fierce. Horse steps on a buried mine; thunder shakes the hills. Flesh and blood defile the pure land; on Zhejiang-Jiangxi Road, the fierce wolf falls."

News of Huang’s heroism spread. Many sought him out—publishers for memoirs, groups for speeches—but he declined, saying simply: "When our homeland was humiliated, I only did what any man should."​​

Yet one invitation lingered in his heart: Lanxi historian Hu Ruming asked him to revisit the battlefield. "The bayberry groves still stand,"Hu wrote. "The fruit is big and sweet!" Huang agreed eagerly.​

But age and illness forced him to postpone, again and again... Until 2014, when the old hero passed away.​​

On a summer afternoon, our interview team met Hu Ruming in Lanxi. At 98, he was still clear-eyed and sharp-eared. He took us on his e-bike to the hillock where Huang’s mine had killed Sakai.

Today, the site has become a pocket park with lush vegetation. The Lanxi Municipal Government erected a "Monument to the Achievements of the War of Resistance" using local bluestone. Next to the monument stands a pavilion, its overhanging eaves casting a thick shade, under which several elderly people sit chatting leisurely on the corner benches.

Sitting in the pavilion, one can hear the waves of the nearby Lanjiang River and smell the rich sweetness of red bayberries...

Hu said: "Lanxi has good water, good soil, and good red bayberries. The government is now developing characteristic tourism, building a 50-li-long 'Red Bayberry Corridor' on the former battlefield. It's a pity Huang never got to see it."

However, we believe that if Huang and those anti- aggression heroes could know about today from heaven, they would have no regrets—for isn't what they hoped for exactly what we see now?!

(By Guangming Daily reporter Zhang Zheng, Lu Jian)

Translated by Xiong Jian