Chapter 420: A Platoon's Force Frozen by a Wounded Enemy

The melee lasted less than ten minutes.

When the Australia soldiers finally cleared this section of the line, they looked at the scene before them, and many vomited.

The trenches were littered with corpses, most of them Sakura Nation soldiers, wearing Degjun uniforms but with Asian faces. Some bodies were incomplete—shattered by grenades, ripped by bayonets, skulls smashed by rifle stocks. Blood soaked the scorched earth, forming patches of dark‑red mud.

One Sakura Nation soldier was still alive. His abdomen had been slashed open by a bayonet, intestines spilling out, yet he still struggled to get up. An Australia sergeant walked over, hesitated, and gave him a quick end with his pistol.

"Who are these people?" a young soldier asked, his voice trembling.

"Japanese, probably," the sergeant said, "I heard Deguo hired them."

"They... they are completely insane. They could have surrendered..."

"Maybe they don't know what to do," the sergeant lit a cigarette, his hand shaking, "maybe they think surrendering is worse than death."

Behind the line, Chai Wulong watched the whole scene through a telescope. He saw his own soldiers cut down like straw, saw them charge knowing death awaited, and saw the final trench segment seized by the British Army.

His Third Division had five thousand men in the morning; now... perhaps fewer than a thousand.

A mouthful of blood rose to his throat; he forced it down, but more blood spilled from his mouth corner. He felt searing chest pain, and darkness clouded his vision.

"General!" Captain Shi Taiyin steadied him.

Chai Wulong pushed him aside, struggling to the communication equipment: "Contact Second Group Army Headquarters... Third Division line B5 sector breached... request... request artillery fire to cover the area... together... together with the soldiers still there..."

He collapsed after finishing the sentence. His heart gave out; the fifty‑eight‑year‑old veteran finally broke down.

Shi Taiyin caught him and roared into the mic: "This is sector B5! We need medical support! General Chai is having a heart attack!"

Then he glanced at the map. After the British Army occupied sector B5, a gap opened in the whole line. If not sealed, the British Army could pour through the gap and encircle the Degjun positions on both flanks.

He gritted his teeth, picked up another phone: "Artillery Command? This is Captain Feng Shi Taiyin. Coordinates B5 area, request intense bombardment. Repeat, request intense bombardment."

He paused, then added softly: "There... are still our men there."

The other end was silent for a few seconds, then replied: "Copy. Bombardment will begin in five minutes."

Shi Taiyin hung up, looked at the unconscious Chai Wulong, then glanced at the battlefield outside, where artillery fire rained down.

War is like that. For the greater cause, someone always has to be sacrificed.

And now, the Sakura Nation soldiers still fighting bitterly at sector B5 are about to be covered by their own artillery fire.

South of the Somme River front, the Indian 3rd Lahore Division's attack sector, 2:30 p. m.

The terrain here was slightly better—some remaining orchards and ruined farmhouses could provide cover. But the British Army's bombardment was equally fierce, and the Degjun line was likewise blown to pieces.

Indian soldiers crouched behind the attack start line, most expressionless. They came from Punjab, Rajasthan, Bengal, speaking different languages, adhering to different religions—Hinduism, Sikhism, Islam. The only commonality: none of them came here voluntarily.

Corporal Hajit Singh of the 15th Ludianna Sikh Regiment was praying silently. He was a devout Sikh, wrapped in his distinctive turban, beard braided. By doctrine he should not kill. But this was war, and he was a soldier of the British Empire.

"Ten minutes left," Major Roberts, the British Army commander, walked over; he was a typical Yingguo gentleman, even on the front trying to keep his appearance tidy, "Boys, remember: we are one of the Empire's elite units. Let the Deguo see the courage of Indian soldiers!"

The translator rendered the speech into Urdu. The soldiers listened but reacted little. Courage? They didn't know what this war had to do with India. They fought only to feed their families, nothing more.

The bombardment stopped. A flare rose.

"Charge!"

Indian soldiers leapt out of the trench. Their charge formation was denser than the Australia's—ordered by a Yingguo officer, "to demonstrate discipline." As a result, when Degjun machine guns opened fire, casualties were even heavier.

Hajit's platoon had only advanced a hundred meters before meeting fierce fire. MG08 bullets swept like scythes; front‑row soldiers fell like toys. Some were hit in the head, steel helmets dented like cans; some were struck in the abdomen, screaming as they rolled on the ground; some were cut cleanly at the waist.

"Spread out! Find cover!" the platoon leader shouted, but his voice was drowned by gunfire.

Hajit dove into a shell crater, where a wounded soldier already lay—a young Rajasthan man, thigh riddled, blood gushing. Hajit tore off his own turban and pressed it hard onto the wound.

"You'll be fine," he said in Hindi, though the other might not understand.

"I want to go home..." the soldier sobbed, "I want to return to Jaipur..."

More Indian soldiers jumped into the crater. It quickly filled with people—some still alive, some already dead, some in between.

"We can't stay here!" a sergeant shouted, "Keep moving!"

But no one moved. Fear had frozen everyone.

At the crater's edge a silhouette suddenly appeared—wearing a Degjun uniform, but with an Asian face, blood‑red eyes, a bayonet in hand. It was a Sakura Nation soldier, infiltrating from the flank.

"Enemy!" someone screamed.

The Sakura Nation soldier leapt into the crater, bayonet thrust straight into an Indian soldier's chest. He withdrew the bayonet and stabbed another. His motions were mechanical and efficient, as if completing a task.

Hajit instinctively raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. A bullet struck the opponent's shoulder, but the Sakura Nation soldier only staggered and kept lunging. Hajit fired again, this time hitting the abdomen. The foe finally fell, yet his hand kept moving, trying to grab Hajit's foot.

Hajit looked down at the Asian face, a visage showing no expression, only hollow eyes and a tightly pressed mouth. This man, like him, came from a distant East and died on this foreign soil.

"Why..." Hajit murmured.

Major Roberts, at the rear observation post, saw the scene and, in anger, smashed the telescope.

"Coward! A bunch of cowards!" he roared, "A platoon's strength scared by a wounded enemy! Is this the army the Empire spent a fortune on raising?"

The deputy officer said cautiously, "Major, after all they aren't Yingguo, their combat morale..."

"I don't care what they are!" Roberts interrupted, "They are soldiers and must obey orders! Dispatch: any who hesitate shall be dealt with by military law!"

The order reached the front, but its effect was limited. Indian soldiers indeed resumed moving, but slowly, formations loose, dropping the moment fire suppressed them. All afternoon, the 3rd Lahore Division, after suffering eight hundred casualties, advanced less than three hundred meters.

Elsewhere on the line, the situation was similar: Australia units were brave but used simple tactics, suffering heavy losses before Degjun‑placed fire points; New Zealand units had relatively more experience but were too few; Canadian units performed best, yet their attack sector's terrain was the most complex, slowing progress.

By sunset, the British Army's average advance depth across the 25‑kilometre front was 900 m; deepest point 1.2 km, shallowest only 300 m.

The price paid was: Day 1, 19,000 killed, 41,000 wounded.

Degjun losses were far smaller, yet still over ten thousand, with Sakura Nation troops making up the majority.