Chapter 313: Battle of Yiling: Attack Within the Cannonade

Moji Shan, Japanese army Frontline Commander, Company Captain Xiaotian Yilang.

"Baka! Everyone, stay alert! The Chinese army could come up at any moment!"

Just as Xiaotian Yilang was roaring in the command post, a sharp whistling of mortar shells cutting through the air suddenly rang out from the positions.

Xiaotian Yilang's complexion turned deathly pale in an instant; he lunged out of the trench, looking toward the front positions. He saw that the once orderly line was now engulfed in soaring flames and billowing black smoke.

The subordinates he had just been berating were instantly covered by artillery fire, writhing in agony amid the raging flames.

"Baka! The Chinese army is coming up! Open fire! Open fire for me!"

Xiaotian Yilang waved his sword hysterically, shouting hoarsely,

his voice sounding especially shrill and grim amid the roar of the artillery.

Xiaotian Yilang had already set up a dense Crossfire network along the inevitable route.

In an instant, several Japanese army machine guns spewed flames, firing bullets toward the spot where the mortar blast had sounded.

But the Little Devils hadn't expected that this was only a feint force deployed by Yao Quanyi.

Nevertheless, in Xiaotian Yilang's view, this was the Chinese troops, about to launch a general assault on Moji Shan.

"Good, the fox finally shows its tail." Yao Quanyi's mouth curled into a cold grin; he snapped his head around and roared loudly, "Machine Gunner, suppress the enemy Little Devils mercilessly! Pin them dead in the trenches!"

"Yes!"

The Machine Gunners, who had been waiting for this moment for a long time, shouted in unison and pulled the triggers.

In an instant, a chilling, cloth‑tearing horror sound echoed across the battlefield.

Da-da-da!

Da-da-da!

This is the unique roar of the MG42 General Machine Gun, a killing machine the Allied Forces soldiers in Ouzhou call the "Devil's chainsaw". At that moment, all MG42s of the entire battalion fired simultaneously, countless tongues of fire intertwining into an impenetrable metal storm that raged wildly toward the Japanese army positions.

In contrast, the retaliatory sounds from the Japanese army positions sounded thin and feeble. The distinctive "ka‑ka" feeding noise of the Taisho Type 11 light machine gun and the woodpecker‑like "bang, bang" of the Type 92 heavy machine gun were instantly drowned out by the MG42's 1,200 rounds per minute rate of fire.

In the face of absolute quantity and quality, those old Japanese soldiers were nothing more than children's toys.

The funnel‑shaped feeding apparatus of the Taisho Type 11 not only had a slow rate of fire but also required frequent reloading; often, after only a few tentative shots, the overwhelming hail of enemy fire pressed them down so they could barely lift their heads.

Yao Quanyi's order after the battle began was to unleash full firepower, regardless of burst or single shots; what mattered was fire coverage.

The Japanese army machine gunners who had been trying to return fire were instantly crushed by this ferocious fire, their souls scattered.

In terror they discovered that any slight head peeking out of the trench, even half a body, would be instantly shredded into fragments by dozens of bullets.

The Japanese soldiers who hadn't managed to retreat into fortifications could only huddle like frightened mice in the deepest parts of the foxholes, daring not even to breathe, burying their heads deep in the soil, praying that Death would not descend upon them.

As soon as they saw the yellow‑skinned monkeys, a dozen or so bullets would fire at them immediately, giving them no chance to escape.

The entire Japanese army front line, at this moment, had all its fire points completely silenced except for a few reinforced concrete Bunkers.

However, those Bunkers still spewed flames.

The thick concrete walls made them hard bones on the battlefield; the Japanese army machine gunners inside, relying on the sturdy protection, continued to pour bullets outward.

But this didn't last long.

The Japanese army machine gunners inside the Bunker soon felt a bone‑deep terror. They were horrified to discover that whenever they opened fire, the Chinese army's positions would instantly have five or six, even more, MG42s swivel their barrels to concentrate fire on that tiny firing port.

It was a hopelessly suppressive force.

Countless bullets raked the concrete around the firing port, sending shards of stone flying and sparks scattering. The dense stream even produced a "ricochet" effect, with innumerable rounds bouncing or shattering upon hitting the port wall and penetrating into the Bunker.

"Ah!"

A Japanese shooter, brandishing a Type 92 heavy machine gun in a frenzied sweep, didn't even have time to let out a full scream; a few stray rounds pierced the firing port, instantly tearing his chest and neck. Blood mixed with shredded flesh splattered onto the cold barrel, and his corpse fell backward, crushing the assistant behind him.

But this didn't stop the machine gun fire inside the Bunker.

Almost the same second the primary shooter fell, a fierce, feral glint flashed in the assistant's eyes.

He didn't even wipe the scorching blood from his face; he roughly shoved his comrade's corpse aside, gripped the hot gunstock with both hands, let out a roar, and kept pulling the trigger.

"Baka! Can't stop! For the Empire! For the Emperor!"

The Japanese Bushido Spirit is truly ingrained to the bone!

Even under such desperate firepower disadvantage, even under that metal‑storm‑like onslaught, this group of Little Devils' fighting will never broke.

They seemed like emotionless war machines, fully aware that the next second they might fall, yet they kept charging forward, treading on their comrades' blood, persisting in that inevitably futile resistance.

The Moji Shan battlefield was like a pot of boiling molten iron.

The frontal artillery and machine gun fire intertwined into a massive sound net, masking the approaching footsteps of death.

In the dense thicket on the northwest side of Moji Shan, Second Battalion Commander Huang Long lay behind a patch of grass, cloaked in a camouflage net that blended him with the surroundings. He turned his head slightly, listening to the deafening explosions not far ahead, a flash of keen light flashing in his eyes.

That was the "The bait" meticulously designed by Regiment Commander Yao Quanyi.

A P-38 fighter aircraft swept over Yichang in the sky.

The fierce frontal artillery barrage and the MG42's heart‑rending roar drew all of the Japanese army's attention.

Huang Long could imagine that at this moment the Japanese soldiers on the positions were huddled trembling in the trenches, all their barrels aimed toward the front.

That meant their flank and rear.

The Japanese positions on this northwest side were, at this moment, surely empty.

"Now is the time." Huang Long glanced at the watch on his wrist; the timing was perfect. He turned back, gesturing low and forcefully toward the pairs of eyes shining in the jungle behind him.

A line of warriors, hidden behind bushes and rocks, each crouching low, slipped silently toward the Japanese positions' flank.

Their movements were practiced and swift, muzzles pressed to their chests; in Lashu, they had rehearsed this countless times, and with Myanmar's rainy season arriving, the environment was far harsher than Yichang's.

The Japanese on this side of Moji Shan, as Huang Long had expected, were virtually unprepared. A few Japanese sentries crouched in foxholes, craning their necks toward the front where flames roared, completely ignoring what lay behind them.

In their view, this side was a steep slope, and the Chinese army would not launch an attack from there.

However, they were wrong. Death had already stood behind them.