Chapter 401: The Sakura Nation Troops

Boom—

The barbed wire was blown open, leaving a five‑meter‑wide gap.

"Charge—!"

The crowd surged toward the gap. Jinmu had just stood up when he saw the demolition man crawl out of the crater, waving and smiling at him—then a mortar Shell fell, the whole body vanished, leaving only a drifting steel helmet.

In the French army command post on the reverse slope of Hill 304, Second Group Army commander General Philip Beidang had just been roused by his staff. The fifty‑nine‑year‑old veteran, cloaked in a military greatcoat, walked to the observation port, his face solemn as he listened to the front‑line report.

"General, Degjun is launching a massive offensive from sectors C3 to C7! Artillery fire is unusually intense, and the first defensive line has suffered multiple Breakthroughs!"

"What's the troop strength?"

"At least twenty thousand, General. Moreover… reconnaissance reports that the attacking units are wearing Degjun uniforms, but their faces are Yazhou."

Beidang frowned: "Yazhou? Sakura Nation troops? How did they end up on the Western Front?"

"Unclear. But their tactics are unusual: during the charge their formation is denser than Degjun's, and close‑quarters combat is extremely ferocious. Our machine guns have inflicted heavy casualties, yet they seem… indifferent to losses."

Beidang was silent for a few seconds, then walked to the map: "Order the reserve 37th Division to reinforce sector C5. Artillery, concentrate fire to seal the breach. Tell the troops that Verdun must not retreat a single step."

"Yes!"

After the staff officer ran out, Beidang looked out the window again. In the morning light, fire spouts rose from the front. He muttered to himself: "Sakura Nation troops… how many nations has this war actually dragged in?"

Jinmu finally surged through the barbed‑wire gap and leapt into the French army's first trench.

The trench was a mess. Corpses lay in all directions—some blown dead by artillery, others shredded by shrapnel. A few surviving French soldiers were trying to organize resistance, but they were quickly overwhelmed by the incoming Sakura Nation troops.

"Close‑quarters combat has begun."

This is the combat style the Sakura Nation army excels at. Fifty‑centimeter‑long Type‑30 bayonets were brandished in the narrow trench, bodies clad in German‑style uniforms executing masterful stabbing techniques. Jinmu thrust forward; his bayonet pierced the chest of a French Corporal. The opponent's blue eyes widened, blood foam spurted from his mouth, his finger pulled the trigger— the barrel pointed upward, and the bullet pierced a sandbag.

Sergeant Yoshida was even more ferocious. He didn't use a bayonet, but drew his sword. The blade flashed, and a French machine‑gunner's head was almost cleanly cut off. Blood splattered on the trench wall, showing an eerie dark‑red hue in the morning light.

Kobayashi killed for the first time. He stabbed a young French soldier in the abdomen; as the victim fell, he clutched his rifle barrel and, with his last strength, cursed something in French. Kobayashi yanked the bayonet out forcefully, then knelt in the mud and vomited.

"Get up! Keep moving!" Jinmu hauled him up, "This is only the first defensive line!"

They pushed forward along the trench toward depth. The French resistance grew fiercer. Hand grenades exploded in the cramped space, shrapnel sweeping everything. Jinmu's left arm was slashed open; he tore off a bandage and hastily wrapped it.

The second barbed‑wire fence appeared ahead. This time there was no demolition team—everyone had died on the way.

"Use the corpses!" Yoshida shouted.

The soldiers dragged the fallen bodies over and tossed them onto the barbed wire. The French machine guns raked the area crazily, and more men kept falling. The corpses piled higher, gradually forming a "meat carpet" on the wire.

When Jinmu stepped onto it, his foot felt soft and spongy. He recognized one of the bodies—it was the seventeen‑year‑old Zuoteng, a bullet lodged in his back, his eyes still open, staring toward his hometown.

"Squad Leader! French forces are counter‑attacking on the right!"

Jinmu turned his head and saw roughly a company's worth of French troops surge out of the communication trench, the leading officer waving his pistol. Both sides collided at a Distance of less than twenty meters.

Bayonet against bayonet, buttstock against buttstock. The trench turned into a slaughterhouse.

Jinmu wrestled with a tall French sergeant. The opponent's strength was great, pinning him against the trench wall, both hands strangling his throat. Jinmu felt the engineer's shears at his waist and drove them hard into the sergeant's ribs. The French sergeant screamed and released his grip; Jinmu seized the chance, pulled the shears out, and stabbed again, twice, three times…

"Enough! He's dead!" Yoshida's voice pulled him back to reality.

Jinmu gasped, pushing the corpse aside. Blood covered his hands and face, and he couldn't tell whose it was—his or the enemy's.

Kobayashi was crying. He sat beside the corpse of a French soldier—a blond youth who seemed no older than twenty, a bayonet lodged in his chest. In Kobayashi's hand was an open pocket watch; inside the cover was a photograph—a smiling French girl.

"He said… he said he's getting married next month…" Kobayashi murmured in Japanese, even though the dead man couldn't understand at all.

Yoshida walked over and slapped Kobayashi's face: "Snap out of it! This is a battlefield! Either kill or be killed!"

"But Sergeant, why are we even here? Why are we killing Frenchmen on French soil? What does this have to do with the Empire?"

The question silenced Yoshida. After a few seconds he said, "Because of orders. Because we are soldiers. The rest, we'll think about it when we're alive."

A communications soldier appeared again, his steel helmet gone, a blood‑soaked bandage wrapped around his head: "Sergeant! The battalion commander's order: our battalion has achieved a Breakthrough of the first defensive line! Immediately swing around the flank of Hill 304 and cooperate with the second battalion's main assault!"

"How many are left?"

The communications soldier's eyes were dim: "Preliminary count… the first battalion has suffered over half casualties. Seven officers of company rank or higher are dead."

Yoshida closed his eyes, inhaled deeply: "Understood. Relay to each company: reorganize the combat formation. The wounded stay, the able‑bodied keep advancing."

Jinmu checked the ammunition: two magazines left, three hand grenades. The water bottle had been pierced in the recent scuffle, its water completely drained.

"Squad Leader," Kobayashi wiped his tears, stood up, and slipped the French pocket watch into his pocket, "I'll survive. I'll take this back and tell everyone… what happened here."

09:47 a. m., Third Division headquarters.

Chai Wulang set down his binoculars, his face showing no expression. Front‑line battle reports piled on the table: the Third Division suffered 2,317 dead, 1,894 seriously wounded, light injuries uncounted. The total casualties of the eight divisions were estimated to have exceeded eight thousand.

But the gains were also notable: the entire line broke through the French first defensive line, advancing an average depth of 1.5 km. Of that, the Third Division's sector on the east slope of Hill 304 had already advanced 2.3 km, leaving only the final defensive line before the summit.

"General," Lieutenant Krause entered, his excitement barely concealed, "General Sekete called to congratulate us! He said the Sakura Nation troops' bravery exceeded everyone's expectations! At this rate we'll capture Hill 304 and Dead Man Mountain before sunset today!"

Chai Wulang gave no response to the congratulations, but asked, "What's the situation with evacuating the wounded?"

"Um… Degjun medical units are working at full capacity. But you know, the front‑line aid stations have limited capacity; seriously wounded may have to queue for surgery."

"Queue?" Chai Wulang finally turned his head, his gaze icy, "Lieutenant, those soldiers are bleeding for Deguo. I want them to at least receive timely medical care."

Krause's smile froze: "Of course, General. I will personally oversee the medical department."