Chapter 274: Russians Can't Do Bayonet Fighting

Nakamura walked to the position of the second company. The soldiers lay in the snow, their bodies trembling slightly, unsure whether it was from cold or nerves.

"Sakai," he called a familiar Corporal.

Sergeant Sakai turned his head; he was a veteran who had served since the Russo-Japanese War, a knife scar on his face, a memento of the Port Arthur battle.

"Major," Sakai's voice was very calm.

"Nervous?" Nakamura asked.

Sakai smiled, showing a missing front tooth: "A bit cold, but nothing to be nervous about. I've fought Russians in Fengtian. Their shooting is good, but bayonet fighting is ineffective."

The veteran's experience eased Nakamura slightly. He patted Sakai's shoulder: "Take good care of the new recruits."

"Don't worry, Major."

Nakamura continued his patrol, eventually reaching the machine‑gun squad's position. Warrant Officer Yamada was directing soldiers to set up two crooked‑handle machine guns, selecting a firing position.

"How's the field of fire?" Nakamura asked.

"Fine," Yamada said, pointing ahead, "From here we can cover the entire front of the heights. But the Distance... about seven hundred meters, a bit far for a machine gun."

"After the feint begins, they'll expose their positions," Nakamura said, "Seize the opportunity."

"Yes."

All preparations were complete. Nakamura returned to the command post, glanced at his pocket watch—03:05.

He inhaled deeply, the cold air stabbing his lungs. Then he raised his hand and swept it forward.

The attack began.

The second company's soldiers sprang from cover, spreading into a skirmish line across the snow, advancing toward the heights. They did not run but kept a steady pace, rifles held at the chest, bayonets reflecting a cold glint in the weak daylight.

At first, the Russian position was silent. Through his binoculars, Nakamura could see occasional steel‑helmet outlines at the trench edge, but no fire.

They were observing, assessing.

Distance five hundred meters. Four hundred meters. Three hundred meters.

Suddenly, several tongues of flame erupted from the Russian position—rifle fire. Immediately after, a denser barrage sounded, interspersed with the machine gun's characteristic "tatata".

"Maxim," Hans whispered beside Nakamura, "the Russian standard heavy machine gun."

Nakamura saw soldiers of the second company begin to fall, like puppets pulled by invisible strings, leaving bright red stains on the snow. Yet the others kept moving, even quickening their pace.

"Fire!" Yamada's voice rang out.

The crooked‑handle machine guns' fire sounded completely different from the Russian Maxim—sharper, faster, like fabric being torn. Two guns spewed flames, bullets streaking across the night sky toward the Russian position.

Nakamura watched the effect intently. For the first few seconds, the crooked‑handle fire was steady, trajectories clear, raising a spray of snow before the Russian line. He could see Russian gunners forced to duck.

But soon, a problem arose.

"Jam!" the assistant gunner beside a machine gun shouted.

Yamada rushed over, swiftly pulling back the bolt and extracting the deformed shell. The motion was fairly practiced, but it cost precious ten‑plus seconds.

The other machine gun kept firing, but its rate of fire dropped noticeably—the barrel had overheated.

"Cool down! Quickly cool down!" Yamada shouted.

The assistant gunner scooped snow nearby, trying to apply it to the barrel, but his gloves were too thick, making the motion clumsy. Yamada shoved him aside, grabbed snow himself and pressed it onto the barrel, producing a "zzzz" sound and a puff of white smoke.

At that moment, the flanking unit launched a charge.

Soldiers of the first and third companies surged from cover on both sides, like two daggers thrust at the Russian position. They abandoned formation, sprinting at full speed, firing as they ran, letting out primal roars.

The Russians were clearly thrown into disarray by the sudden pincer. Their machine guns swivelled, but it was too late. Soldiers of the Sakura Nation had already closed to grenade‑throwing range.

Dozens of grenades arced, landing in the Russian trenches. Explosions cracked in succession, brief flashes lighting the heights, revealing splattered earth and human fragments.

"Charge! Charge!" the officers shouted.

Sakura Nation soldiers, bayonets raised, leapt into the trenches. The ensuing fight entered its most brutal phase—close‑quarters melee.

Nakamura set down his binoculars, knowing there was no need to watch further. A Russian company's guard unit had been ambushed by a battalion; the outcome was already decided.

"Very efficient," Hans commented, his tone admiring, "Your soldiers are brave, charging without hesitation."

"But they paid a price," Nakamura said, looking at the motionless figures in the snow, at least twenty‑to‑thirty people.

"War is like that," Hans shrugged, "and your tactics succeeded. Fifteen minutes, you took a company‑size position, the casualty ratio was quite ideal."

Nakamura gave no reply. He was tallying: how many killed? How many wounded? How much ammunition expended? All needed detailed records, to be reported after the battle—not only to the Imperial Japanese high command, but also through special channels to Lanfang.

"Major!" Kobayashi ran over, excitement on his face, "The position is taken! We captured over thirty Russian soldiers, the rest... most were eliminated."

"Our casualties?"

"Preliminary count: twenty‑one killed, fourteen seriously wounded, over thirty lightly wounded," Kobayashi's voice lowered.

Nakamura closed his eyes. Forty‑five men were combat‑ineffective, 7.5% of the total force. The cost of a small‑scale engagement.

"Collect weapons, especially that Maxim machine gun," he ordered, "hand the prisoners over to Degjun for custody. We must continue forward within twenty minutes."

"Yes!"

The soldiers began clearing the battlefield. Nakamura climbed the heights, stepping over shattered fortifications and congealed blood. The trenches were gruesome—Russian and Sakura Nation corpses intermingled, some still locked in combat poses.

Sergeant Sakai sat in a section of trench, bandaging a wound on his arm. He saw Nakamura and grinned.

"Major, I told you, Russians are no good at bayonet fighting," he said, raising a blood‑stained Model‑30 bayonet, "I was one against three, took down two, the third fled."

"Well done," Nakamura said, then noticed a strange machine gun beside Sakai, "What is this?"

"A new Russian gadget," Sakai kicked the gun, "They call it the 'Lewis', supplied by the Yingguo. A light machine gun you can run with. Better than our 'crooked‑handle'."

Nakamura crouched to examine it closely. The gun was indeed cleverly designed, with a cylindrical cooling shroud and a disc‑shaped drum magazine on top. He recalled seeing it in an intelligence brief: a British‑made Lewis light machine gun, some of which the Russians had obtained through aid.

"Take it," he told the soldiers behind him, "It's important loot."

During his continued patrol, Nakamura met Warrant Officer Yamada. The machine‑gun squad leader's complexion was off, squatting beside a crooked‑handle gun, inspecting it.

"Malfunction?" Nakamura asked.

"It jammed after a continuous burst of 120 rounds," Yamada reported, "the barrel overheated severely, the cooling fin design may be flawed. And moreover..."

He picked up a loading tray: "Loading is too cumbersome. It was fine during ship training, but on the battlefield, the hands freeze"

Zhongcun nodded. These are all valuable data; they must be recorded in detail.