Chapter 418: The Third Regiment

That wasn't a sound, it was the materialization of sound. The shockwaves generated by 2,900 guns roaring at once turned the air into a solid wall that slammed into every person's chest. The observation post's glass window shattered instantly, and Mo Lisen felt something break in his ear, warm liquid flowing out—blood.

He forced himself to open his eyes and look ahead.

A scene of hell.

The entire Degjun front line turned into an endless sea of fire. The flashes of explosions merged into a sheet, indistinguishable individual blast points. Black soil, wood chips, and fragments of barbed wire were hurled hundreds of feet into the air, then fell like black rain. Thick smoke rolled upward like a living thing, forming a massive mushroom cloud in the pre‑dawn sky.

The rhythm of the shelling quickly formed: the low rumble of heavy artillery sounded like a continuous earthquake, the sharp crack of medium‑caliber guns like tearing cloth, the thud of mortars like a giant stamping its foot. The sounds blended into a roar beyond human comprehension—an industrial‑age war symphony, a death march written in steel and gunpowder.

Over at the gun positions, the situation was even crazier. Beside a 9.2‑inch howitzer of the Canadian heavy artillery battalion, loaders had already stripped off their shirts, hauling shells with bare arms. Each shell weighed 130 kg and required four men and a hoist to load. The barrel fired once every two minutes, each recoil shaking the earth.

"Faster! Faster! Don't stop!" the gun commander roared, though no one could hear—everyone was temporarily deaf and could only communicate by gestures and lip‑reading.

The barrel quickly grew scorching, emitting white steam in the morning mist. The acrid smell of burning propellant filled the air, mingling with the scent of earth and… a vague, indescribable charred odor. It was the smell of shells striking organic material.

The shelling went on for one hour, two hours, three hours. The sun rose, but thick smoke obscured it, turning it into a dim orange‑red disc, like a blood‑shot eye, coldly watching the hell below.

The Degjun first line had vanished. All that remained was churning smoke and flame. The observer reported: the barbed wire was completely destroyed, most trenches collapsed, and all surface fortifications were leveled.

The command post was pleased. The plan was being executed perfectly.

But they did not know that, in those trenches pounded by shells, there were hardly any German soldiers left.

The Degjun second line, a shelter twelve meters underground, at 9 a. m. on July 28.

The air was so thick it was almost possible to see suspended dust particles. The dim yellow kerosene lamp cast trembling shadows on the walls, like a flock of restless ghosts. The shelter was packed with people—mainly the remnants of the Sakura Nation's Third Division, plus a few Degjun liaison officers and signalmen.

The vibration was relentless. A muffled thunder‑like boom came from above; each heavy‑artillery hit made the shelter sway like a giant shaking a toy box, dust and debris rattling down through ceiling cracks. The soldiers curled in the corners, hands over ears, eyes shut, lips trembling silently.

Major General Chai Wulang sat at the only folding table, trying to mark the British Army's shelling focal points on the map. But his fingers trembled, and his pencil lines were crooked. It wasn't fear—he had endured harsher bombardments at Port Arthur and in Fengtian. It was a pure physiological reaction, the relentless shaking ravaging his nervous system.

"The fifth…" he murmured. Each unusually strong tremor meant another heavy shell had struck directly above the shelter. The concrete ceiling had developed fine cracks.

The signalman wore headphones, trying to intercept radio signals, but static interference was too strong, leaving only a hiss.

Captain Feng Shi Taiyin, the Degjun liaison officer, climbed over, his face caked in ash: "General! The observation post reports the first line has been completely destroyed! The British thought we had our main force there, but in reality there are only three guard companies!"

"Casualties?"

"Most were withdrawn in time. But the shelling was so fierce that many sections of the communication trench collapsed; at least two hundred were trapped in the first line…" Shi Taiyin paused, "They're probably all gone."

Chai Wulang nodded. This was the price of 'elastic defense': trading space for time, land for lives. It seemed clever, but on the abandoned ground there were still people who couldn't get out.

"When will our artillery counter‑attack?" he asked.

"We have to wait for the British infantry to charge." Shi Taiyin glanced at his pocket watch, "According to the plan, the British Army's shelling will continue until noon, then the infantry will advance. Only then will our artillery fire, covering their charge route."

"When will our troops move into position?"

"Five minutes before the shelling stops." Shi Taiyin pointed at the map, "Segments B3 to B7 are yours. The terrain there is open, with no natural cover, one of the British Army's most likely main attack directions."

Chai Wulang stared at the open wheat field on the map. The golden wheat should have been ripe, but now it had surely been turned to scorched earth by the shelling. There was no cover, only barren ground and a few remaining craters.

"My troops…" he rasped, "The Third Division now has fewer than five thousand combat‑ready men. Yet we must defend a two‑kilometre‑wide front. That averages to only two and a half men per metre of line."

"I understand, General." Shi Taiyin looked away, "But the orders are that way. All reserve units of the Second Group Army are to be used on more critical sectors. Here… you must hold until reinforcements arrive."

"When will the reinforcements arrive?"

"Within 48 hours."

Chai Wulang smiled, a smile without warmth: "Captain, do you think we can hold off the British, fifty times our strength, for 48 hours on this terrain?"

Shi Taiyin said nothing. The answer was obvious.

At that moment, the shelter door was pushed open and a man staggered in. It was Sergeant Jin Cun, his face smeared with blood, his left arm crudely bound with torn uniform strips soaked through with blood.

"Division commander!" Sergeant Jin Cun hoarsely shouted, "The Third Regiment's underground shelter was hit directly! It collapsed! At least three hundred are trapped inside!"

Chai Wulang sprang to his feet: "Location!"

"East side of sector B5! We tried to dig, but the shelling is too intense; those who get out can't even stand up!"

Shi Taiyin seized Chai Wulang's arm: "General, you can't go out! With the current surface artillery density, stepping out is death!"

"Those inside are my soldiers!" Chai Wulang roared.

"That's war too!" Shi Taiyin raised his voice, "If you go out, you'll die as well! Then who will command the remaining troops?"

The two locked eyes. The shelling's boom continued overhead, like a funeral bell that never ceased.

Finally, Chai Wulang slowly sat down. He closed his eyes, pressed his fingers deep into his palm, and squeezed out blood.

"Relay the order…" his voice was barely audible, "Abort the digging. Everyone… hold position and await orders."

Sergeant Jin Cun stared blankly at the division commander, then slowly lowered his head, his shoulders trembling. It was a silent sob, insignificant amid the shelling's boom.