Chapter 276: The Grand Offensive Begins 2

Hans walked over, his usual professional expression restored.

"Time's up, Major Nakamura. Good luck."

"Likewise."

The two shook hands and then each went to his own post.

At six o'clock sharp, the eastern sky just turned a pale dawn, and the shelling began.

Hundreds to thousands of Degjun artillery pieces fired simultaneously, Shells streaking across the dawn sky like a rain of steel meteors, falling on the distant Russian positions. Explosions roared nonstop, the ground trembled, even the air quivered.

Nakamura used a telescope to observe the shelling's effect. The distant hilltops were shrouded in firelight and smoke, showing no sign of life.

The shelling lasted thirty minutes. Then a whistle sounded, and the first wave of Degjun soldiers leapt from the trenches, beginning the charge.

The general offensive began.

Nakamura inhaled deeply, drew his saber, and pointed toward the area covered by shellfire.

"Third Battalion, advance!"

The soldiers shouted, followed him out of the woods, and rushed toward the snowfield that had been tilled by shellfire.

Above them, dawn finally arrived; sunlight pierced the clouds, illuminating the war‑torn land. The icy lake reflected a blood‑red glow, the forest burned, and the sky was stained a dirty gray by smoke.

Amid the chaos, the machine gun nicknamed "Crooked Handle" roared again, writing its first combat record with bullets—imperfect yet effective; unreliable yet usable.

Just like the soldiers wielding it, on this foreign icefield they fought a clear killing for a vague purpose.

The sharp whine of Shells tearing the air became the sole soundtrack of this land.

Koji Matsumoto lay on the edge of a crater, cotton stuffing in his ears supplied by the Degjun, yet the blast still made his guts churn. Soil, snow chunks, and unknown fragments fell like rain, striking his steel helmet with a dull "thud thud".

"Don't look up! Everyone, don't look up!"

Sergeant Yamada's roar could barely be heard between explosions. The forty‑year‑old veteran, leader of Matsumoto's squad, bore three saber scars on his face from the Russo‑Japanese War.

Matsumoto buried his face in the cold earth, tasting smoke, blood, and a metallic tang. He recalled Hokkaido winters, equally deep snow but without this smell. His father dug potatoes in the snow, his mother simmered miso soup indoors, his siblings huddled by the hearth...

"Koji! What are you thinking!"

Next to him, Oshima elbowed him. Oshima, a fellow Hokkaido native, enlisted with Matsumoto, boarded the transport together, and now they lie in this damned crater side by side.

"Nothing much," Matsumoto shook his head, spitting out the dirt, "How much longer will the shelling last?"

"Who the hell knows," Oshima grinned, his missing front tooth making a comical smile on his grime‑covered face, "Degjun have plenty of Shells; let them bomb. The longer they bomb, the safer our charge will be."

He said that, but Matsumoto could see Oshima's gun‑hand trembling slightly.

Their squad of thirteen was now cramped into a crater less than ten meters across. The rim still steamed, freshly blown. Matsumoto saw a half‑frozen arm at the bottom, clad in a Russian grey coat, fingers curled toward the sky.

"Hey, look over there," Private Kobayashi, seated opposite, whispered.

Matsumoto followed his gaze. About two hundred meters away, a unit of Degjun soldiers sprang from cover, forming a skirmish line advancing toward the shell‑covered front. Their movements were practiced and swift, using every crater and terrain feature for cover, advancing in alternation.

"Degjun are up," Sergeant Yamada squinted, "Our turn. Check equipment!"

The soldiers began final preparations. Matsumoto inspected his Type 38 rifle, cycling the bolt to ensure a clean chamber, then took five five‑round stripper clips from his ammo pack, loading them neatly into the chest‑mounted ammunition pouch.

"Grenade!" Yamada shouted.

Matsumoto pulled two Type 91 grenades from his pack's side pocket, unscrewing the safety caps, exposing the pull rings, and slotted them onto a convenient spot on his belt.

"Machine gun team!"

"Ready!" Corporal Kawahara replied, kneeling in the crater's center, fiddling with the Crooked Handle machine gun. Assistant gunner Ono helped, inserting a drum magazine into the gun's left feed port.

"Kawahara, it's on you today," Yamada patted Kawahara's shoulder.

"Don't worry, Sergeant," Kawahara grinned, though Matsumoto saw sweat covering his forehead, "This baby jammed once yesterday; I cleaned it spotless today, guarantee it won't jam."

The shelling's intensity began to wane. The once‑continuous explosions turned into intermittent booms. The distant sky was stained a dirty ochre by smoke.

"Ready!" Yamada rose, half his body jutting over the crater rim, scanning ahead.

Matsumoto also lifted his head cautiously. The sight ahead made him gasp a cold breath.

What was a flat snowfield yesterday now resembled the lunar surface. Craters of all sizes dotted the terrain, some still smoking. Broken timber, shattered corpses, twisted metal wreckage littered everything. Farther off, the collapsed Russian trenches and a few still‑burning fortifications could be made out.

"Degjun have broken the first line of defense," Yamada assessed, "See? The Russians are retreating."

Indeed, Matsumoto saw a few grey figures fleeing backward, but most lay motionless in the snow.

A whistle sounded, sharp and shrill.

"Advance!" Yamada leapt out of the crater.

Matsumoto inhaled deeply and followed, jumping out. His foot landed on the soft, shell‑torn soil, nearly slipping. He steadied himself, raised his rifle, and moved forward behind Yamada.

The squad advanced in a wedge formation. Kawahara and Ono's machine gun team took the center, the others fanned out on the flanks. Everyone ran, leapt, charging from crater to crater.

The first few hundred meters met no resistance. Only sporadic gunfire echoed from afar. Matsumoto even began to think the fight might end there, the Russians' will already shattered by the Shells.

Then he heard that sound.

It was a low, continuous sound, like tearing heavy canvas.

"Maxim!" Yamada shouted, "Hit the ground! All of you, hit the ground!"

Matsumoto instinctively threw himself to the ground, his face buried in the snow. The next second, bullets swept over his head like hail, striking the snow behind him and spraying a burst of snow mist.

"Position! Find the position!" Yamada roared.

Matsumoto carefully lifted his head, scanning through the lingering smoke for the machine‑gun fire point. The sound came from the left‑front, about three hundred meters away on a rise. A few half‑ruined farmhouses dotted the spot; the machine gun was likely hidden in one of them.

"Ten o'clock direction! Farmhouse!" Oshima shouted, having located the target.