Chapter 278: Total Assault Begins 4

"Charge!" Yamada was the first to rush toward the farmhouse.

Matsumoto followed, rifle barrel pressed to his chest. They kicked open the half‑closed door and surged inside.

The scene inside was too horrific to bear.

The blast's force was amplified in the sealed space. Two Russian soldiers lay by the window, flesh and blood a mess, barely recognizable as human. A Maxim machine gun had been blown onto the floor, its barrel twisted. The air reeked of gunpowder smoke, blood and the foul stench of ruptured entrails.

But the fight was not over.

A Russian shout came from the inner room, followed by rifle fire. Bullets struck the doorframe, splintering wood.

"Cover!" Yamada shouted, hurling the last hand grenade into the inner room.

Matsumoto and Oshima immediately opened fire toward the inner room, suppressing any enemies that might break out. The grenade exploded, and a larger cloud of smoke poured out.

As soon as the explosion faded, Yamada charged in. Matsumoto followed closely.

The inner room was even smaller, containing only a table, two chairs and a collapsed cabinet. Three Russian soldiers lay in a pool of blood, one still convulsing. In the corner, a young Russian soldier—no older than eighteen—sat slumped on the floor, rifle in hand, eyes vacant, clearly having lost the will to fight.

Yamada's muzzle pointed at him, his finger resting on the trigger.

The young Russian soldier stared at the barrel, his lips trembling, uttered something in Russian, then began to sob.

Matsumoto looked at the youthful face and thought of his own brother. If his brother were here, he would be just as frightened, wouldn't he?

"Sergeant…" he said instinctively.

Yamada lowered his muzzle. He stepped up to the Russian soldier, kicked the rifle from his hands, and gestured "stand up."

The Russian soldier stared blankly at him.

"Prisoner," Yamada said in simple German, then pointed outside.

The Russian soldier seemed to understand, trembling as he rose and raised his hands.

"Take him out," Yamada told Fujiwara, "hand him over to the Degjun behind."

Fujiwara nodded, pointing his gun at the prisoner as they left the farmhouse.

Yamada turned to Matsumoto and Oshima: "Search the whole building, make sure it's secure. Then we hold this place until the main force arrives."

Matsumoto began the sweep. In a corner of the outer room he found a wooden crate; inside were full belts of machine‑gun ammunition and several boxes of rifle rounds.

"Ammunition!" he shouted.

"Alright. Bring it over, place it by the window," Yamada said. "We may need it."

Oshima retrieved a Nagant pistol and several magazines from a Russian corpse, tucking them onto his belt: "Spoils."

Matsumoto had no desire to loot the bodies. He went to the window and looked out. The distant fighting continued, gunfire, explosions and shouts blending together. Farther away, he saw Japanese troops advancing, like a swarm of yellow ants moving across the snow.

"We made it," Oshima said, handing him a water bottle, "have some, Russian's."

Matsumoto took the bottle, took a sip—it was vodka, so strong it made him cough.

"Hey, look at that," Oshima said, pointing outside.

Matsumoto looked and saw Kawahara dragging the crooked machine gun toward the farmhouse, with Kobayashi and several other soldiers behind him. They passed smoothly through the area that had just been blocked by machine‑gun fire.

A few minutes later, the entire squad—or rather, the remaining nine men—reconvened inside the farmhouse.

"Well done," Yamada patted Matsumoto's shoulder. "The three of you saved us all."

Matsumoto wanted to say something, but his throat was dry; he only nodded.

Kawahara inspected the captured Maxim machine gun, shaking his head: "It's broken, can't be fixed. But the ammo's still usable." He lifted a belt of rounds. "Look, Deguo Mauser round, 7.92 mm, different from what we use."

"Put it away; it might be useful later," Yamada said.

The squad began setting up a defensive position in the farmhouse. They pushed tables and cabinets to the windows, piled sandbags made from frozen soil dug outside, and fashioned simple firing ports. Kawahara mounted the crooked machine gun in the front window; although its mount was broken, it could still fire from the sill.

"Sergeant, we have a situation," Kobayashi, the observer, called out.

Yamada went to the window, picked up the binoculars. Matsumoto also leaned over to look.

About five hundred meters away, a Russian unit was organizing a counter‑attack. The force was sizable, at least a company, advancing in a dispersed line toward this direction.

"They want to retake this high ground," Yamada judged. "The view here is excellent; holding it lets us seal off the whole area."

"Can we hold it?" Oshima asked.

Yamada didn't answer directly; he said, "Send a signal, request Shell support. Then, prepare for battle."

Kawahara took a signal flare gun from his pack, loaded a red flare, and fired it through a hole in the roof. The red light rose into the sky, striking the dim backdrop.

A few minutes later, Shells began falling on the Russian assault formation. The shells were not dense; clearly the Degjun artillery's main fire was supporting other directions.

"Looks like we have to rely on ourselves," Yamada said with a wry smile. "Conserve ammo, wait until they get within two hundred meters before we fire. Kawahara, your machine gun is the key."

"Understood." Kawahara checked the machine gun's ammo box, finding about twenty rounds left. "Ono… does Ono still have a box of ammo?"

No one answered. Ono's corpse was still outside, near the crater they had just taken cover in.

"I'll get it," Matsumoto stood up.

"Too dangerous," Yamada warned.

"We need ammo," Matsumoto said, "and we can't leave him there."

Yamada stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded. "Go quickly and come back. Oshima, you cover."

Matsumoto crouched and burst out of the farmhouse, retracing his route. Bullets occasionally whizzed overhead, mostly aimed at the farmhouse. He reached the crater; Ono's body lay there, already stiff.

Matsumoto knelt, pulled three full ammo boxes from Ono's pack. He also saw something in Ono's hand; opening the stiff fingers revealed a tiny charm inscribed with "May your martial luck endure."

"I'm sorry," Matsumoto whispered, slipping the charm into his pocket. "I'll take it back to his family."

He lifted an ammo box, turned to head back, when a strange sound—like a whistle, but sharper—came from the sky.

Matsumoto looked up, seeing several black dots falling from the sky, growing larger.

Mortar shell.

He instinctively threw himself to the ground. Explosions rang around him, the nearest less than ten meters away. The shockwave made his ears buzz, and dirt and snow clumped like rain fell on him.

When the blasts ceased, Matsumoto struggled to his feet, checked himself—miraculously uninjured. But as he looked toward the farmhouse, his heart sank.

A mortar shell struck the farmhouse roof directly. The already damaged roof collapsed completely, and one wall fell. Smoke and dust billowed from the wreckage.

"No..." Song Ben murmured, then, as if going mad, charged toward the farmhouse.