Chapter 277: The Full Offensive Begins 3

"Kawahara! Suppressive fire!" Yamada ordered.

Kawahara and Ono quickly set up the crooked-hand machine gun. Ono placed the gun on the edge of a shell crater, Kawahara crouched down, his shoulder braced against the stock.

"Fire!"

The crooked-hand machine gun emitted a sharp rapid‑fire sound, in stark contrast to the Maxim gun's deep roar. Matsumoto saw the tongues of fire spewing from the machine gun, saw the bright lines the bullets traced in the air, saw the brick and stone fragments splintering from the farmhouse wall as the bullets struck.

"Got a hit!" Kobayashi shouted excitedly.

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

"Move! Move quickly!" Yamada roared.

But it was already too late. The Maxim's bullets swept in like a huge scythe, striking the snow around Kawahara's machine‑gun nest; the spray of snow and earth nearly engulfed the two. One bullet hit the crooked-hand's gun mount, the sound of twisted metal was harsh and grating.

"Ono!" Kawahara shouted suddenly.

Matsumoto turned his head and saw the assistant shooter Ono's body leaning backward, a bright red blossom of blood blooming on his chest. The ammunition box in his hand fell to the ground, scattering yellowish bullets across the snow.

"Medic!" Kawahara tried to pull Ono, but another sweep of Maxim bullets forced him to duck his head and take cover.

"Kawahara! Machine gun!" Yamada's voice warped with urgency.

Kawahara gritted his teeth, abandoned Ono, grabbed the crooked-hand's handle with one hand, and dragged it rolling toward a nearby shell crater. Bullets chased him, punching a series of holes in the snow behind him.

Matsumoto saw Ono still convulsing on the ground, blood gushing from his chest, melting a bright red pit in the snow. The nineteen‑year‑old had just yesterday been saying that once the war ended he would return home and open a ramen shop.

"Matsumoto! Oshima! Provide fire support!" Yamada's command snapped Matsumoto back to reality.

Matsumoto and Oshima fired simultaneously toward the farmhouse. Their Type 38 rifles had sufficient range, but accuracy at three hundred meters was hard to guarantee. Bullets struck the farmhouse wall, yet the Maxim gun kept roaring.

"This won't work!" Oshima shouted while pulling the bolt, "We have to get closer!"

Yamada clearly realized this as well. He looked around, searching for usable terrain.

"Do you see that ditch?" he pointed to the left front, "It might be a drainage ditch, partially covered by snow. We'll approach from there!"

Matsumoto looked and indeed there was a shallow trench, winding from their position toward the farmhouse. Though only about half a meter deep, it was better than being fully exposed.

"Squad, follow me! Low crawl!"

Yamada surged ahead, practically dragging himself along the ground toward the ditch. Matsumoto followed closely; the mud, snow clods, and gravel jabbed painfully, but he dared not stop.

Bullets whistled overhead. Matsumoto could hear their flight, some passing close with a death‑rattling shriek. He recalled his instructor's words during training: "If you can hear the bullet, it means it has already passed. The truly lethal one is the one you don't hear."

That sentence has now become his only comfort.

After crawling about fifty meters, they finally rolled into the ditch. Water had pooled at the bottom, frozen but thin enough to shatter under pressure. Matsumoto's trousers were instantly soaked, the bone‑chilling cold making him shiver.

"Check the numbers!" Yamada said, panting heavily.

Matsumoto looked around. Kawahara had crawled over with the machine gun, its barrel coated in mud and snow. Oshima, Kobayashi, and five other soldiers were also present. Including Yamada and himself, there were nine in total.

The squad was down four men. Ono lay behind them, and three others had disappeared during the recent charge—perhaps killed, perhaps wounded, perhaps lost.

"Damn it," Yamada muttered low, then pulled a grenade from his waist. "Listen, we can't stay here. The Russian machine gun is suppressing the whole area; the troops behind can't advance."

He paused, looking each person in the eye: "I need three men to go around the right side, get close to the farmhouse's back window. The rest stay here to provide fire cover and draw attention."

A brief silence.

"I'll go," Matsumoto was the first to speak. He was a bit surprised himself, but the words were out.

"I'll go too," Oshima said.

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

Yamada nodded: "Alright. Kawahara, is your machine gun still functional?"

Kawahara inspected the crooked-hand: "The mount is broken, but the gun itself should be fine. I can fire it braced against my shoulder."

"Set up a position right here. When we reach the spot, I'll signal—throw a grenade. When you hear the explosion, open fire at full force to draw the machine gun's fire."

"Understood."

Yamada looked at the three: "Take grenades, the more the better. Let's move."

The crawl out of the ditch and the detour to the farmhouse's right side was the longest three minutes Matsumoto had ever endured.

They moved almost belly‑flat, wriggling over every slight rise, each clump of dead grass, each shell crater. The Maxim gun in the farmhouse fired intermittently, its bullets mainly aimed forward, but occasionally sweeping to the sides.

Matsumoto could hear his own heartbeat, pounding as if it would burst his chest. Sweat ran from his forehead into his eyes, stinging. Yet he dared not wipe it, not even blink.

The distance kept closing. One hundred meters. Eighty meters. Fifty meters.

The farmhouse's full shape came into view: a typical East Prussian farmstead, stone foundation, wooden walls, thatched roof. Now the roof bore a huge blast hole, the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and a window's glass was completely shattered.

The machine‑gun fire came from that window without glass.

Matsumoto saw the machine‑gun barrel protruding from the window, spewing tongues of fire, its muzzle brake emitting obvious flames with each shot. A Russian soldier's silhouette was faintly visible behind the window, operating the gun.

"Thirty meters left," Yamada lowered his voice, "prepare the grenades."

Matsumoto took a Type 91 grenade from his belt, unscrewed the safety cap, his finger hooking the pull ring. Oshima and Fujiwara did the same.

"I'll count to three, we throw together. Aim at the window."

"One."

Matsumoto took a deep breath.

"Two."

Fingers tightened.

"Three!"

The four rose simultaneously, throwing the grenades toward the window with all their might. The four black objects arced through the air.

The first grenade struck the window frame, bounced once, and fell outside to explode.

The second and third grenades flew into the window.

The fourth—Matsumoto's—also flew in.

Time seemed to freeze for a second.

Then, two muffled blasts erupted inside the farmhouse, fire spewing from the window, mingling with wood chips and human fragments. The Maxim gun's roar abruptly ceased.