Chapter 686: Eight Thousand

The cherry blossom country's soldiers were too many. Kill one, ten rush up. Kill ten, a hundred rush up. They don't dodge, don't lie down, just charge straight into the bullets. Some are hit in the leg, kneel on the ground yet keep crawling forward; some are hit in the abdomen, intestines spill out, yet they still prop themselves with bayonets and inch forward.

Next to them, the Vickers Machine Gun raked the field madly, its barrel glowing red. The gunner was shirtless, drenched in sweat, swearing profusely. Shell casings clanged onto the ground, piling into a small heap.

But the cherry blossom country's soldiers kept charging. Closer and closer—

Amaer suddenly saw a face.

It was a young cherry blossom country soldier, seemingly under twenty, his face smeared with seawater and sand, eyes red as if about to bleed. He held a rifle, its bayonet glinting coldly in the dawn, charging toward the trench.

Amaer aimed at him and pulled the trigger.

It jammed.

He frantically pulled the bolt, but the bullet was stuck, it wouldn't move. He pulled again, still nothing.

That cherry blossom country soldier kept closing in. Thirty meters, twenty meters, ten meters—

Amaer dropped the gun, turned and fled.

He didn't know what he was running from, only that he had to run, to leave this place, to leave those who feared no death. He ran around a trench corner, stepped on a corpse, nearly fell. He braced against the trench wall and kept running.

Someone beside him was also running. One, two, ten, a hundred.

Collapse spread like a plague. Amaer saw the Indian soldiers around him drop their rifles one by one and turn to flee. A Yingguo officer fired from behind, killing two deserters, to no avail. More surged forward, knocking the Yingguo officer down and stepping on him.

Amaer heard shouts from behind—those of the cherry blossom people, growing nearer, nearer—

"Long live!"

Tianzhong Erlang's legs gave out as he jumped into the trench, and he fell straight to his knees.

The trench was filled with corpses—British, Indian, and a few cherry blossom country soldiers—perhaps those who had rushed in earlier; the bodies were still warm, blood still flowing. The blood turned the mud at the trench bottom a dark red, sticky underfoot.

He gasped heavily, his ears buzzing, unable to hear anything clearly. A shrapnel wound gashed his left leg, blood trickling down his pant leg, yet he felt no pain. His eyes, stung by smoke, watered, everything appearing blurry.

Next to him lay an Indian soldier, still alive, staring at him. The man's abdomen had been hit; intestines spilled onto his belly, still writhing. He opened his mouth to shout, but only managed a wheezing sound, like a leaking bellows.

Tianzhong Erlang stared at the man, frozen for a second.

Then he raised his gun, bayonet aimed at the man's chest.

The Indian soldier's eyes suddenly widened. He reached out, trying to grasp something, but could not. His lips moved as if saying something. Tianzhong Erlang couldn't understand, but knew it was a plea for mercy.

His hand trembled.

The Indian soldier kept saying something, hands clasped together, raised above his head, his forehead pressed to the ground. Blood gushed from his abdominal wound, spilling everywhere.

Tianzhong Erlang closed his eyes and thrust the bayonet forward.

That scream he would never forget in his life.

He pulled out the bayonet; the man twitched twice, then fell still.

Tianzhong Erlang leaned against the trench wall, gasping heavily. His hand still trembled, his whole body shook. He stared at the bloodied bayonet, at the corpse still bleeding, at the darkening blood seeping slowly into the soil.

"Get up!"

Someone kicked him. He looked up, seeing an old soldier smeared with blood, shouting at him. Above the veteran's left eye was a deep scar, blood covering half his face, yet his eyes shone terrifyingly.

"Get up! Keep charging! The second trench!"

Tianzhong Erlang struggled to rise. The wound on his leg tugged with pain, but he couldn't worry about it. He picked up his gun and ran forward with the old soldier.

At the trench's end, gunfire still rang.

"Report, General: the th Division nd Regiment has achieved a Breakthrough of the British Army's first defensive line. But… losses are severe."

Xiaoyuan Chuan stood on the transport ship's bridge, holding a telescope, watching the sand beach stained crimson with blood. From his distance he couldn't make out the faces of the fallen, but he could see the countless objects lying on the beach—bodies, piled upon each other, being washed by the waves, the seawater turned dark red.

He didn't turn around: "How many?"

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu's voice trembled: "The nd Regiment had three thousand men, now less than eight hundred remain… Colonel Ono fell in battle."

Xiaoyuan Chuan was silent for three seconds.

He saw the soldiers still charging in the distance—they had already surged onto the beach, advancing toward the British Army's second defensive line. On the beach, the lying bodies, some still moving, some already still. Waves rolled in, tossing the corpses back and forth like a pile of discarded rag dolls.

"Order the th Division reserve, commit both regiments to the beach," Xiaoyuan Chuan said, his voice eerily steady, "Tell the new regiment commander, spare no cost, seize the second defensive line."

Lin Zhongfu was startled: "General, the th Division has only four regiments…"

"I know," Xiaoyuan Chuan cut him off, "but the British Army is collapsing. If we don't increase the pressure now, waiting for them to steady will cause more deaths."

Lin Zhongfu gritted his teeth, turned to deliver the order.

Xiaoyuan Chuan kept holding the telescope, watching the hellish beach.

The second wave of landing craft surged toward the beach. The boats were packed with men, the soldiers unaware of what awaited them. They might die, might be maimed, might become, like the first wave, the motionless rag dolls on the sand.

On the distant sea, several Lanfang Cruisers were closing on the coastline. Their gun barrels burst with fire, Shells whistling toward the British Army positions. The remaining stubborn machine‑gun nests were blown away one after another. Soil, splintered wood, human remains were hurled into the air, then fell back down.

Further out, the silhouettes of the Zhenyuan and Jiyuan massive ships loomed majestically in the dawn. Their 380‑mm Main Guns periodically spewed flames dozens of meters long, Shells soaring over the beach, landing on the British Army's depth positions. Each explosion raised clouds of earth and shattered flesh. Even fifteen kilometers away, the deep thundering roar could be heard.

"General," the communications officer ran over, "General Zhou Zhen guo's telegram: the battleship will extend its bombardment, suppressing the British Army's rear. The cruiser will continue to support the beach. Wishing you victorious fortunes."

Xiaoyuan Chuan nodded.

He looked again at the beach. The second wave of landing craft had already reached shore, soldiers leapt into the sea, charging toward the beach. Survivors of the first wave were advancing toward the second defensive line, the number of people on the beach growing, as were the corpses.

"Eight thousand," he murmured, "that's probably how many will die."

Lin Zhongfu returned, standing beside him, silent.

The two just stood there, watching the hellish scene in the distance.