World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Chapter 276 The Final Offensive Begins 3

"Kawahara! Suppressive fire!" Yamada ordered.

Kawahara and Ono quickly set up the Type 91 machine gun. Ono positioned the gun on the edge of a shell crater, while Kawahara lay prone, his shoulder braced against the butt of the gun.

"Fire!"

The sharp, rapid-fire sound of the Type 96 machine gun contrasted sharply with the deep roar of the Maxim gun. Matsumoto saw the tongues of fire from the machine gun, the bright lines drawn by the bullets in the air, and the brick and stone fragments that splattered as the bullets hit the farmhouse walls.

"I hit it!" Kobayashi shouted excitedly.

But the Maxim machine gun in the farmhouse only paused for a few seconds before firing again. This time its target was clear—directly aimed at Kawara's machine gun position.

"Evacuate! Evacuate now!" Yamada roared.

But it was too late. Maxim's bullets swept across like a giant scythe, striking the snow around the Kawara machine gun position, the splashing snow and mud nearly burying the two men. A bullet struck the Type 11 machine gun mount, the sound of metal twisting and deforming was grating and unpleasant.

"Ono!" Kawara suddenly shouted.

Matsumoto turned his head and saw that the assistant gunner, Ono, was lying backward, a bright red flower of blood blooming on his chest. The magazine in his hand fell to the ground, and the yellow bullets were scattered all over the ground.

"Medic!" Kawahara tried to pull Ono away, but Maxim's bullets swept in again, forcing him to duck and dodge.

"Kawahara! Machine gun!" Yamada's voice was distorted with anxiety.

Kawahara gritted his teeth, abandoned Ono, grabbed the crooked handle of the gun with one hand, and dragged it towards the nearby shell crater. Bullets chased after him, leaving a series of holes in the snow behind him.

Matsumoto saw Ono still convulsing on the ground, blood gushing from his chest, melting into a bright red puddle in the snow. This nineteen-year-old had been saying just yesterday that he wanted to go back to his hometown and open a ramen shop after the war ended.

"Matsumoto! Oshima! Cover fire!" Yamada's order brought Matsumoto back to reality.

Matsumoto and Oshima opened fire simultaneously, firing towards the farmhouse. Their Type 38 rifles had sufficient range, but accuracy was questionable at 300 meters. Bullets struck the farmhouse walls, but the Maxim machine gun continued its roar.

"This won't do!" Oshima shouted as he pulled back the bolt of his rifle. "We need to get closer!"

Yamada clearly realized this as well. He looked around, searching for terrain he could use.

"See that ditch?" he pointed to the left. "It's probably a drainage ditch, partially covered by snow. We'll approach from there!"

Matsumoto looked and saw a shallow ditch winding from their location toward the farmhouse. Although it was only about half a meter deep, it was better than being completely exposed.

"Squad up, follow me! Low crawl!"

Yamada rushed out first, crawling almost along the ground towards the ditch. Matsumoto followed closely behind, the mud, snow, and gravel hurting him, but he dared not stop.

Bullets whizzed overhead. Matsumoto could hear them flying by, some very close, their deathly shrieks echoing. He remembered his instructor's words during training: "If you can hear the sound of a bullet, it's already past. The real killer is the one you can't hear."

These words have now become his only comfort.

After climbing for about fifty meters, they finally tumbled into the ditch. The bottom of the ditch was filled with water, which had frozen over, but the ice was thin and easily broken. Matsumoto's trousers were instantly soaked, and the biting cold made him shiver.

"Check the number of people!" Yamada said, panting heavily.

Matsumoto looked around. Kawahara crawled over, dragging a machine gun covered in mud and snow. Oshima, Kobayashi, and five other soldiers were also there. Including Yamada and himself, there were nine people in total.

The squad is down four men. Ono fell at the back, and three others went missing in the charge—they may have been killed, wounded, or separated from the group.

"Damn it," Yamada cursed under his breath, then pulled a grenade from his waist. "Listen, we can't stop here. The Russian machine guns are suppressing the entire area; the troops behind can't get up."

He paused, looking everyone in the eye: "I need three men to come with me around to the right and get close to the back window of the farmhouse. The rest of you will provide cover fire and draw attention from here."

A brief silence.

"I'll go," Matsumoto said first. He was a little surprised himself, but the words were already out.

"I'll go too," Oshima said.

"Count me in." The speaker was veteran Fujiwara, a taciturn private first class whose face was always expressionless.

Yamada nodded: "Okay. Kawahara, is your machine gun still usable?"

Kawahara inspected the Type 96: "The gun mount is broken, but the gun itself should be fine. I can fire it from my shoulder."

"Establish a position here. Once we've circled around to our position, I'll give the signal—throw a grenade. When you hear the explosion, open fire at full speed to draw machine gun fire."

"clear."

Yamada looked at Matsumoto and the other two: "Take grenades, the more the better. Let's go."

The process of climbing out of the ditch and circling around to the right side of the farmhouse was the longest three minutes Matsumoto had ever experienced in his life.

They crawled almost flat on the ground, using every tiny undulation of the terrain, every clump of withered grass, every shell crater. The Maxim machine gun in the farmhouse fired intermittently, the bullets mainly aimed at the front, but occasionally sweeping to the sides.

Matsumoto could hear his own heartbeat, so violent it felt like it was about to burst out of his chest. Sweat streamed down his forehead, stinging his eyes. But he dared not wipe it away, nor even blink.

The distance is getting closer. One hundred meters. Eighty meters. Fifty meters.

The farmhouse gradually came into focus. It was a typical East Prussian farmhouse, with a stone foundation, wooden walls, and a thatched roof. Now, the roof had been blown open, the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and one window was completely shattered.

The sound of machine gun fire was coming from that window without glass.

Matsumoto saw the machine gun barrel protruding from the window, spitting fire, and the muzzle brake emitting a noticeable flame with each shot. The figure of a Russian soldier was vaguely visible behind the window, operating the machine gun.

"Thirty meters to go," Yamada said in a low voice. "Prepare the grenades."

Matsumoto took a Type 91 grenade from his belt, unscrewed the safety cap, and hooked the pin with his finger. Oshima and Fujiwara did the same.

"I'll count to three, then throw them all at once. Aim for the window."

"one."

Matsumoto took a deep breath.

"two."

Tighten your fingers.

"three!"

The four men stood up simultaneously and threw the grenades at the window with all their might. Four black objects traced arcs in the air.

The first one hit the window frame, bounced, fell outside the window, and exploded.

The second and third missiles flew through the window.

The fourth one—the one Matsumoto threw—also flew in.

Time seemed to freeze for a second.

Then, two muffled thuds erupted from inside the farmhouse, and flames shot out of the windows, mixed with sawdust and human fragments. The roar of the Maxim machine gun abruptly ceased.