Chapter 400: Verdun Meat Grinder

Imamura recalled Major General Chai Wulong's briefing three days earlier: "Gentlemen, this battle concerns the empire's honor. Your Majesty Wilhelm has personally promised that if we win, all participants will receive double reward, and the fallen will receive triple compensation. You must create peace for future generations!"

At the time, no one in the audience cheered. After eight months of hell on the Eastern Front, these veterans had learned that money cannot buy back life, and honor does not fill the stomach. Yet they came, because an order is an order, because they are Imperial soldiers.

"Squad Leader," Xiaolin suddenly whispered, his voice trembling, "you said… can we go back?"

Imamura gave no reply. Sergeant Yoshida took over: "Thinking about that is useless. Remember the training: when charging, spread out, don't bunch up. Use demolition tubes on barbed wire, and hand grenades on machine‑gun nests. After entering the trench, bayonets are more useful than rifles."

"But Sergeant Major Yoshida, will Degjun artillery really cover us? On the Eastern Front, their artillery support was always late…"

"This time is different," Imamura finally spoke, his voice so calm it surprised even himself, "Degjun needs this victory. Major General Chai said this is a battle personally observed by Emperor Wilhelm."

From afar came a low rumble. Degjun artillery began its final calibration before firing.

Xiaolin licked his cracked lips: "Squad Leader, I had a dream last night. I dreamed the cherry blossoms of my hometown were in bloom, my sister wearing a newly made kimono dancing under the trees… then shells fell, and the cherry blossoms turned blood‑red."

Imamura reached out and patted his shoulder—a gesture rarely seen in the Cherry Blossom Nation's troops, one he had learned while fighting side‑by‑side with Degjun on the Eastern Front.

"Survive," Imamura said, "survive and you can go back to see the cherry blossoms."

The communications soldier, hunched over, ran along the trench, panting, and stopped before Yoshida: "Sergeant Major! The battalion commander orders: in five minutes launch the charge on time! The signal is three red signal flares! The first wave, our company will lead the assault; we must breach the first barbed‑wire line within fifteen minutes!"

"Understood," Yoshida nodded, turning to Imamura. "Squad Leader, check your equipment."

Imamura quickly inspected his waist: four oval hand grenades, two thirty‑round ammunition boxes, a pair of engineer's shears, a pack of bandages. Yoshida also carried a Type‑10 grenade launcher and six grenades, the squad's only "heavy weapon."

Mud soaked his leggings, the cold was bone‑piercing. Imamura glanced at his pocket watch: 04:21.

Three kilometers behind the Third Division, in a concealed forest position, Major General Chai Wulong was observing the front through an artillery observation mirror. His command post was set inside a reinforced Degjun bunker, with a massive Verdun operational map on the wall, dense red and blue arrows covering it.

The map showed: today eight divisions of the Cherry Blossom Nation will launch a simultaneous attack across a twenty‑kilometre front, aiming to seize Hill 304 and Dead Man Mountain on the east bank of the Mas River—these two high points control Verdun's northeastern gateway. If successful, Degjun's main force can flank the French second defensive line.

The plan was flawless. But Major General Chai Wulong knew that war never has a perfect plan.

Beside him stood Major Hans Krause, a staff officer sent by Major General Feng Sekete, the Degjun liaison officer. The blond, blue‑eyed Prussian officer wore a crisp uniform, exuding a faint cologne scent—a stark contrast to the frontline soldiers' sweat and mud.

"General," Krause said in fluent Japanese, "the artillery preparation will begin in one minute. Three hundred heavy guns, forty minutes of saturation fire. In theory, the French first defensive line will be completely destroyed."

Chai Wulong did not turn his head: "Major, I fought siege battles at Port Arthur. Theory is theory, reality is reality. The Russians' fortress was bombarded for three months, and in the end infantry had to fill it with blood and flesh."

Krause smiled: "Those were the Russians. Our Deguo artillery's scientific nature and precision are…"

His words were cut off by a deafening roar.

At exactly 04:22, the world changed color.

The first wave of shells ripped the air with a high‑pitched scream, drawing nearer, then the entire French position exploded. Orange‑red fireballs burst one after another, black columns of smoke rose, and mud, wooden stakes, and barbed‑wire fragments were hurled dozens of meters into the sky. The ground trembled, and Imamura felt his innards resonating.

It was the most ferocious bombardment he had ever witnessed. Compared to the Eastern Front's Russian artillery, it was like children's fireworks. Degjun had clearly concentrated every heavy gun it could mobilize on this narrow stretch.

"God…," Xiaolin murmured, even though he was not a Christian.

The bombardment lasted ten minutes, then twenty, then thirty. The French position was completely engulfed by smoke and flame. Imamura saw a severed arm, blown off, hanging on the nearby barbed wire, its fingers still twitching nervously.

"Prepare!" Sergeant Yoshida growled suddenly.

The bombardment began to extend. The barrage slowly moved deeper into the French position, clearing a charge corridor for the infantry. This is the classic infantry assault tactic: artillery plows, infantry occupies.

Three red signal flares rose into the sky, which had not yet fully brightened.

"Charge—!"

Eight hundred throats roared in unison. Imamura was the first to leap from the trench, sprinting over soft mud toward the death zone. Behind him, the entire battalion surged forward like a tide.

The first two hundred meters went unusually smoothly. The artillery had indeed destroyed most forward obstacles. Imamura leapt over crater after crater, each filled with blood‑red mud. He saw a half‑body of a French soldier embedded in a collapsed bunker, its eyes still open.

Then the machine‑guns opened fire.

"Left side! Nine o'clock!" Yoshida shouted while running.

Imamura dove down, a bullet grazing his scalp. He looked up and saw an undamaged concrete machine‑gun bunker, its firing port spewing flames. The dozen soldiers at the front fell like wheat being cut.

"Grenade launcher!"

Yoshida quickly set up the weapon, and Imamura loaded a grenade. With a muffled "boom," the grenade arced and exploded five meters in front of the machine‑gun bunker, raising only a cloud of dust.

"Too far! Advance fifty meters!"

They crawled forward. Bullets struck the surrounding mud with a "pop" sound. Xiaolin followed behind them, his face pale but his movements still agile.

"Squad Leader! There's a machine‑gun on the right!"

Imamura turned his head; indeed, another fire point on the right had also opened fire. Crossfire. They were pinned down on this open ground.

"Demolition team!" shouted the company commander from behind.

Three soldiers bearing demolition tubes lunged forward. The first was hit by a bullet twenty meters out and fell, the demolition tube rolling aside. The second kept advancing, was struck in the thigh, and screamed as he rolled into a crater. The third—

"Cover him!" Imamura raised his rifle, aiming at the machine‑gun firing port, though he knew rifle rounds couldn't pierce concrete.

The entire squad opened fire together. That burst of fire drew the French shooters' attention. The demolition man used those precious seconds to rush to the barbed wire, light the fuse, and roll into a nearby crater.

Boom!