Chapter 419: Cherry Blossom Country, White‑Blade Battle

At 11:30 AM, the British Army's artillery began to wane.

It wasn't a halt, just a target shift. Heavy artillery started to extend deep into Degjun's defensive line, striking possible reserve troop gathering points and artillery positions. Medium‑caliber guns kept bombarding the front, but at half the previous density.

This is the signal for an infantry charge.

In the British Army's position, soldiers from Australia's Fifth Division emerged from the foxholes. Most were former farmers and miners, tall and bronzed by the Australian sun. At this moment their faces were pale—not from fear, but from seeing the look of the ground ahead.

That place could no longer be called land. It was the surface of the moon, the gateway to hell. Craters linked to craters, some ten meters deep, filled with blood‑red water. Charred soil still smoked, and the air was thick with gunpowder, burnt residue, and… the smell of barbecue.

"God…" a young soldier muttered.

Lieutenant Allen Smith checked his pocket watch: "Ten minutes left. Check your gear!"

The soldiers silently obeyed: inspecting the magazine of their Lee‑Enfield rifles, bayonet lugs, grenade fuzes. Many stuffed extra grenades into their pockets; some pulled out family photos for a glance before slipping them back into their close‑carry pockets.

"Remember!" Lieutenant Smith shouted, his voice carrying far in the relatively quiet air. "Maintain formation! Don't bunch up! Use explosive charges on barbed wire, use grenades on machine‑gun nests! Our artillery has already turned the Deguo guys into meat sauce; we're just going to seize the position!"

He didn't even fully believe his own words. Gallipoli's experience had taught him: artillery can never wipe out every enemy. Someone always survives, someone always crawls out of the rubble and pulls the trigger with their last ounce of strength.

But he had to say it. Morale had to be maintained, even with a lie.

At exactly 12:00 PM, three green signal flares rose into the sky.

"Charge—!"

Three thousand Australian soldiers leapt from the trenches, surging toward the scorched earth like a tide.

Degjun's second line of defense, sector B5, 12:07 PM.

Chai Wulang saw the Yingguo charge through the observation slit. Dense, tan‑colored silhouettes covered the view like an ant swarm. Their charge was slow—carrying thirty kilograms of gear, treading soft cratered soil, they couldn't move fast. Yet their numbers were overwhelming, enough to crush hope.

"Enter the position!" he roared.

The shelter's door was pushed open. Cherry Blossom Country soldiers surged out, climbing the stairs toward the surface. As they passed the entrances of foxholes where comrades had been buried by collapse, some paused briefly, staring at the sealed openings, then were shoved forward by those behind.

The surface situation was worse than imagined.

The original trenches were gone, leaving only a few depressions. Barbed wire had been blown into twisted metal shards scattered across the scorched earth. No foxholes, no machine‑gun nests, only a handful of surviving concrete chunks offering limited cover.

Section Sergeant Jinmu's squad found a relatively intact trench—actually only half a meter deep, just enough to crouch. Five men: Jinmu himself, Sergeant Yoshida, Xiaolin, and two fresh recruits whose names he couldn't recall. They lay on the trench edge, bracing their rifles.

Xiaolin's hand trembled. He tried to align the sight on the distant British Army, but the crosshair in his view shook violently.

"Take a deep breath," Sergeant Yoshida said, his voice unusually calm. "Aim at the officer, or the one with the machine gun. You can't finish off ordinary soldiers."

"Distance… how much?" a recruit asked, his voice trembling with sobs.

"Eight hundred meters," Jinmu estimated. "Hold fire until they're at four hundred meters. Conserve ammunition."

He glanced at the squad's ammo: five rifles, each with only two magazines, a total of sixty bullets. Grenades? None. Grenade launchers? None. Machine guns? The entire 3rd Regiment had only three functional MG08s left, positioned elsewhere.

They would have to use the five rifles in their hands to hold off at least a battalion of the British Army.

The British Army entered the 500‑meter range. Their faces were now visible—young, most under twenty‑five. They held their rifles, bayonets glinting coldly in the sun, moving mechanically and resolutely.

"Ready…" Jinmu whispered.

Four hundred meters.

"Fire!"

Five rifles fired simultaneously. The range was too great, Hit Rate low, but at least two British soldiers fell. Yingguo's formation staggered briefly, then quickly recovered and kept advancing.

More gunfire rang from all points of the defense. The surviving Degjun machine guns finally opened fire, the MG08's characteristic "cloth‑tearing" sound echoing across the battlefield. The charging Australian soldiers fell as if cut by an invisible scythe, front ranks collapsing row after row.

But those behind kept moving forward. They began to run, crouch, using craters for cover. A typical skirmisher charge tactic.

"Reload!" Jinmu emptied a magazine, fumbling to reload.

Sergeant Yoshida's shooting was precise. He had already downed six men, each shot aimed at the chest. Yet his hand trembled—not from fear, but from fatigue and malnutrition‑induced muscle cramps.

Xiaolin fired three rounds, none hit. His scope was filled with shaking silhouettes; he didn't know which one to target.

"Hold steady!" Yoshida roared, "Aim at one, finish it, then find the next!"

Three hundred meters. The British Army began to return fire. Bullets whizzed overhead, striking the trench edge and kicking up dirt. A Cherry Blossom Country soldier was hit in the head and fell without a sound.

"Medic!" someone shouted, but quickly realized: there was no medic. All medical personnel were in the rear shelter, unable to come up now.

Two hundred meters. The British Army's charge speed increased. They began throwing grenades, but the distance was too great; most landed on open ground. A few fell into the trench, explosions mingling with screams.

Jinmu felt something strike his left shoulder, a burning pain. He looked down, saw a hole in his uniform with blood seeping out—a bullet graze.

"Section Sergeant!" Xiaolin shouted.

"All right! Keep firing!"

One hundred fifty meters. The British Army was close enough to see their eyes—blue, brown, green—filled with fear, anger and resolve. Both sides fought for survival, though neither understood why they were killing each other on this French field.

Sergeant Yoshida suddenly stood. He tossed the empty rifle aside and drew his saber.

"Sergeant! What are you doing!" Jinmu roared.

"Ammunition depleted!" Yoshida turned, a wild grin on his face. "Section Sergeant, here's your final lesson: in close combat, morale matters more than skill!"

He leapt out of the trench, charging the nearest British soldier. The Australian youngster startled, frantically raised his bayonet. Yoshida's saber arced, slashing the enemy's barrel, sparks flying. The second stroke cut off two fingers. The third thrust pierced the throat.

Fresh blood splattered on Yoshida's face, and he laughed like a demon.

More Cherry Blossom Country soldiers leapt from the trench. They knew ammo was scarce, knew this charge was suicide, yet they still surged. Better to die in the charge than be blown up by grenades in the trench. At least… they looked more like soldiers.

Xiaolin watched Yoshida's back; the veteran, surrounded by five British soldiers, still waved his saber. A bayonet stabbed into his abdomen; he hummed, then with a reverse slash cut off the opponent's arm. Another bayonet plunged into his back…

"No—!" Xiaolin screamed, also leaping from the trench. He brandished a bayonet, charging the British soldier who had killed Yoshida.

Jinmu tried to seize him, but was a step too late. He glanced at his rifle with five rounds left, then surveyed the surroundings: few remained in the trench, either killed or withdrawn.

He chose the third path.

"All! Fix bayonets! Charge!"

The final dozen or so Cherry Blossom Country soldiers leapt from the trench, like moths flying into flame, charging the British crowd. They let out roars unlike human voices, desperate howls, frantic venting, the last protest against this absurd war.