Chapter 279: Combat Section – A Little Water

The farmhouse has already turned into a pile of burning ruins.

Songben rushed into the still smoking wreckage, shouting, "Sergeant! Dadao! He Yuan!"

"Here…" a faint voice came from the corner.

Songben pried apart the broken wood and thatch, seeing Shantian pinned under a collapsed beam, his face covered in blood but still alive. Beside him, Dadao was straining to lift the beam.

"Help!" Dadao roared.

Songben joined, and the two of them used all their strength, finally shifting the heavy beam a little and pulling Shantian out. Shantian's left leg was bent at an unnatural angle, clearly broken.

"Where are the others?" Songben asked anxiously.

"Teng Yuan and Xiao Lin are over there…" Shantian said through the pain, "He Yuan… He Yuan is at the window, the Shell hit directly…"

Songben looked toward the window. There was only a heap of rubble and twisted metal—the wreckage of that crooked light machine gun. He Yuan's corpse was buried beneath, with only an arm protruding.

"There are three more on guard outside, we don't know…" Dadao's words were cut off as gunfire and Russian shouts came from outside.

The Russian troops were already approaching.

"Take the rifle!" Shantian gritted his teeth, trying to stand, but the leg injury made him slump back to the ground.

Songben and Dadao grabbed their rifles, climbed to the relatively intact section of wall, and looked out through the firing port.

Russian soldiers had already surged within a hundred meters, using shell craters and terrain for cover, advancing step by step. Their numbers were at least fifty or sixty.

"Ammunition!" Dadao checked his ammo pouch, "I still have two bridge clips, ten rounds."

Songben also pulled rounds from his own bag: "I have fifteen rounds. Grenades… only one left."

They looked at Shantian. The sergeant unbuckled his ammo bag from his waist and tossed it over: "Take it, I still have twenty rounds. Two grenades."

In total, forty‑five rifle rounds and three grenades against fifty or sixty enemies.

"Looks like we'll have to finish it here today," Dadao said with a wry smile, cocking his rifle, "Songben, do you regret coming with me?"

Songben shook his head, aimed at a running Russian soldier, pulled the trigger. The gun cracked, the soldier fell.

"No regrets." he said, pulling the bolt, the shell casing ejected, "At least we're together."

The battle began.

The Russians clearly realized the farmhouse's defenses were severely weakened and quickened their charge. Songben and Dadao took turns firing, each shot striving for a hit. But the enemy was too many, and they were returning fire.

Bullets struck the wall with a puff‑puff sound. Debris splattered, smoke filled the air. Songben felt his cheek heat up, reached out and felt blood—it was a cut from flying shards of stone.

"Left! Coming from the left!" Dadao shouted.

Songben turned his head and saw three Russian soldiers already within thirty meters, hurling grenades at the farmhouse. Two grenades rolled through the air toward them.

"Grenade!" Songben shouted, grabbing his last Type 91, pulling the ring, holding it in his hand for two seconds, then throwing it forcefully.

The two Russian‑made grenades exploded outside the farmhouse, shaking the ruined wall. Songben's thrown grenade intersected a Russian grenade in mid‑air and detonated among the Russian soldiers. A wail rose.

But more enemies came forward.

"Out of ammo!" Dadao shouted, his ammo pouch empty.

Songben tossed his last bridge clip to him: "Share it!"

Five rounds, split between two.

Shantian crawled over, dragging his injured leg, holding his two grenades: "Use these, wait until they get closer."

The Russians seemed to realize the defenders' ammo was dwindling, and their charge grew bolder. Over a dozen soldiers stood, bayonets fixed, and rushed straight forward.

"For the Heavenly Locust!" Dadao suddenly stood, brandishing his bayonet and leapt out of the cover.

"Dadao! Come back!" Songben shouted, but it was too late.

Dadao surged toward the enemy like a madman. A Russian soldier fired at him, the bullet striking his shoulder, yet he kept charging, stabbing that soldier's chest with his bayonet. A second Russian thrust at him from the side; Dadao turned to block, but the third soldier's bayonet had already pierced his abdomen.

Songben saw Dadao collapse to his knees, then more bayonets drove into his body.

"Ah—!" Songben let out a beast‑like roar, stood and fired in rapid succession. Two rounds, two Russian soldiers fell. But the bolt clicked empty—no ammo left.

Russian soldiers closed in, bayonets flashing coldly in the dim light.

Songben set down his rifle, drew a combat engineer's shovel from his waist—his last weapon. Shantian struggled to stand, but the leg injury kept him immobile.

At that moment, a strange sound came from behind.

It was a deep, rhythmic blast, far more powerful than a grenade. Shells fell into the Russian ranks, precise and lethal. Not Degjun's heavy artillery—smaller explosions—but a rapid rate of fire.

Songben turned and saw, about three hundred meters away, a few Japanese soldiers operating a strange little cannon. The barrel was short, mounted on two legs; one soldier aimed, another loaded. Each shot caused the barrel to recoil, then quickly reset for the next fire.

"That's… " Shantian's eyes widened, "Type 92 Infantry Cannon! Our infantry cannon!"

It was indeed the Type 92 Infantry Cannon supplied by Lanfang. The shells fell into the Russian charge as if they had eyes, each capable of blowing down three or four men. The Russian assault was broken, the survivors began to retreat, seeking cover.

Immediately, more Japanese soldiers surged from the rear, rifle fire and machine‑gun sweeps. Reinforcements arrived.

Songben collapsed onto the ground, the engineer's shovel slipping from his hand. He stared at Dadao's corpse, at the rubble where He Yuan was buried, at the grievously wounded Shantian, and at the bodies littering the ground outside the farmhouse.

The battle ended, and they had held the high ground.

But the squad of thirteen now had only three left: Songben, the severely wounded Shantian, and a private who had been on outer guard and just rejoined. The rest were dead.

A Japanese Lieutenant led soldiers into the farmhouse ruins: "Is anyone still alive?"

"Here." Songben raised his hand.

The Lieutenant came over, saw Shantian's leg wound, and immediately called for a medic. Then he looked at Songben: "Which unit are you from?"

"Third Battalion, Second Company, First Squad." Songben replied mechanically.

"You held the key position." The Lieutenant patted his shoulder, "Well done. We'll take over here; you go back for rest."

The medic lifted Shantian and left. Songben stood, walked to Dadao's corpse. He knelt, closed Dadao's still‑open eyes, and pulled a photo from his pocket—a family portrait of Dadao, parents and two sisters, all smiling.

Songben slipped the photo back into Dadao's chest pocket, then stood and followed the medic toward the rear.