Bright Sword: The Flowers of War

Chapter 298 Launching the All-Out Offensive
One hour.

A full hour of shelling.

When the terrifying roar that could tear eardrums finally came to an abrupt end, the whole world seemed to fall into dead silence.

Li Yunlong and Ding Wei, who were lying in the trench, were completely dumbfounded.

They were like two wooden sculptures struck by lightning, motionless, with only their chests heaving violently.

The bombardment lasted for an hour. More than 300 artillery pieces, ranging from 60mm to 155mm, and tens of thousands of shells of varying calibers were unleashed in an almost extravagant manner on the Japanese defensive line, which was already riddled with holes by aircraft.

Now, that defensive line is gone, replaced by a scorched earth, cratered like the surface of the moon, shrouded in a raging deathly haze, constantly belching black smoke.

It is no exaggeration to say that Li Yunlong has fought for more than ten years, from the Red Army period to today. All the shells he has seen and endured probably don't even amount to a fraction of the shells fired by the Shanxi militia artillery in just one hour.

This isn't a war anymore, this is like plowing the land! They've plowed up the Japanese positions from beginning to end with artillery shells!
In that brief but suffocating silence, the earth began to tremble again.

But this time it wasn't the sharp, violent tremor of artillery fire, but a low, continuous roar, as if a steel behemoth was awakening.

"Old Li... Old Li, look... their... their armored units have started their attack!"

The voice of Political Commissar Zhao Gang rang out from the side, his voice filled with disbelief and shock, even trembling slightly.

"I saw it."

Li Yunlong gritted his teeth and squeezed out those words.

He stared intently at the smoke-filled area ahead, a complex light flashing in his eyes—a mixture of shock, fervor, and intense envy.

More than a hundred M4 Sherman tanks, painted with the emblem of the Republic of China, slowly drove out from behind the militia's position in a neat attack formation.

Their heavy tracks rumbled as they rolled over craters and scorched earth, the 75mm main gun on the turret stood proudly, and the machine guns on the hull were already spitting fire, clearing away any potentially threatening targets.

Behind these steel behemoths were hundreds of militia soldiers armed with submachine guns and semi-automatic rifles. They advanced in shifts, using the tanks as cover, their movements skillful and resolute.

"Fuck..."

Li Yunlong slammed his fist into the mound of earth in front of him. "If I had an armored force like this, I could have taken over the entire Shanxi province long ago, let alone Taiyuan!"

Upon hearing this, Zhao Gang, who was standing next to him, sighed slightly, showing no pure excitement like Li Yunlong.

As a top student from Tsinghua University, his understanding of some things is far more profound than that of Li Yunlong, a fierce general who came from humble beginnings.

He knew all too well the terrifying industrial base and logistical support required to build and maintain a mechanized army as powerful as the one before him.

Those seemingly imposing airplanes, tanks, and heavy artillery are nothing more than useless scrap metal without fuel, ammunition, spare parts, and professional maintenance personnel.

To achieve this goal, for a poor and weak China, it may require countless people to spend a generation or even several generations to build and struggle.

Where did this Shanxi militia come from?

Zhao Gang was filled with deep shock and doubt.

Before Li Yunlong and Zhao Gang's shocked eyes, the first M4 Sherman tank, painted in gray with the Kuomintang emblem painted on the side of its turret, slowly emerged from behind a reverse slope like a steel behemoth awakening.

Its thick tracks rolled up the scorched mud and easily rolled over a huge crater created by a shell. The thirty-ton vehicle was unusually stable on the uneven ground.

But this is just the beginning.

Immediately afterwards, on the left and right sides of the first tank, the second, the third... and more Sherman tanks appeared one after another.

They did not rush out in a swarm, but rather in standard attack squads of three tanks, one after another, rapidly deploying in front of the position to form a broad and awe-inspiring steel front.

Soon, two fully-equipped armored regiments, with more than a hundred tanks, formed an enormous wedge-shaped attack formation, divided into three echelons, like a giant iron plow ready to pierce the heavens and the earth, and began to slowly press towards the dead-sounding Japanese positions.

The roar of more than a hundred engines combined into a destructive symphony, and the sound of hundreds of tracks crushing the earth, the metallic clanging and friction, was enough to make anyone's heart stop beating.

This is not over yet!

As this moving steel forest began to advance, soldiers from two infantry regiments poured out of the trenches behind them like a tidal wave bursting its banks!
Instead of rushing around like headless flies, they followed the tanks quickly and orderly, organized by platoon and squad.

Some of them were carrying M1 Garand semi-automatic rifles, some were holding BAR automatic rifles, and others were carrying Thompson submachine guns.

They skillfully used the tank's massive hull as mobile cover, alternating between them, and advanced in small, quick steps.

The tank's turret and machine guns roared incessantly, their short, deadly roars washing over the shell craters and remaining fortifications with a dense hail of bullets. From the air, the sight was enough to send chills down the spine of any military commander.

It was an unstoppable armored fist composed of more than a hundred tanks, escorted by two regiments and thousands of elite infantrymen, charging toward the Japanese positions that had already been thoroughly ravaged by artillery fire with an unquestionable and overwhelming momentum.

For the Japanese soldiers who had miraculously survived an hour of hellish bombardment, the scene before them was even more despairing than the shelling itself.

They had just crawled out of the mud where they had been buried alive, their ears still ringing and their minds not yet clear, when they saw this group of steel nightmares slowly emerging from the smoke of battle.

The Type 38 rifle bullets in their hands only produced a series of weak sparks and ricocheting sounds when they hit the tank's thick armor; they couldn't even be considered a tickle.

The tanks responded with 75mm high-explosive shells and hundreds of rounds of ammunition.

A single shell could "fill in" a huge crater that had housed several Japanese soldiers, along with the people inside.

A single burst of machine gun fire could tear any resistance fighter who dared to show their face to shreds.

From the very beginning, this battle skipped the probing phase and instantly entered the most brutal and bloody white-hot stage.

After the steel torrent of tanks swept over the main Japanese positions, countless trenches, tunnels, and caves, shattered by artillery fire, became tough bones for the infantry to gnaw at one by one with their own flesh and blood.

On a hillside position that had been partially destroyed by bombing, a militia infantry platoon leader crouched low, pointing his submachine gun at the entrance of a dark cave not far away. He shouted to a soldier beside him carrying a heavy metal canister, "Flamethrower! Aim at that cave!"

Without hesitation, the soldier carrying the M2 flamethrower, which weighed dozens of kilograms, immediately crouched down, aimed the nozzle at the hole, and pulled the trigger hard.

"call……"

A thick, orange-red fire dragon, accompanied by a deep roar, shot out from the nozzle and precisely poured into the deep cave.

The flames of the napalm instantly ignited everything inside the cave—the air, the rock walls, and the people hiding inside.

The cave was initially deathly silent, then erupted into a series of inhuman howls and wails.

Seconds later, seven or eight Japanese soldiers, their bodies completely engulfed in flames, rushed out of the cave like fire demons crawling out of hell. Thick black smoke billowed from their bodies—the stench of their charred uniforms, flesh, and fat.

These "fire men" rolled wildly on the ground, futilely trying to extinguish the raging flames that clung to their bodies, emitting extremely shrill howls.

Suddenly, several more Japanese soldiers, their bodies only slightly ablaze but mostly burned and ulcerated, rushed out of the cave, bayonets fixed to their rifles.

They seemed oblivious to the excruciating pain of their fat being ignited; their faces contorted with madness, they recklessly lunged at the militia soldiers standing at the cave entrance, attempting a final, desperate struggle.

"Straf!"

Their response was the cold, frenzied roar of several Thompson submachine guns.

The dense hail of bullets instantly riddled the bodies of these Japanese "fire men" with holes, blood and bits of flesh splattering in the flames. In just a few seconds, they were completely knocked to the ground, turning into charred corpses that were still burning and twitching.

"Get closer and spray again!" the platoon leader shouted. Judging from the commotion just now, the cave was obviously very deep and there must still be enemy survivors inside.

Upon receiving the order, the flamethrower soldier immediately rushed to the cave entrance and pulled the trigger once again, shooting an even longer and hotter stream of fire deep into the cave.

This time, the screams coming from inside the cave were more frequent, rising and falling, but soon faded away.

"Follow me and charge in!" The platoon leader didn't wait any longer. He waved his hand and, without hesitation, was the first to rush into the cave, which was still radiating scorching heat and a burnt smell.

A dozen soldiers followed closely behind him, guns at the ready, and rushed in.

The flamethrower soldiers remained at the cave entrance, occasionally spewing brief bursts of flame into the pitch-black depths of the cave, serving both as a deterrent and to provide momentary illumination for their comrades rushing inside.

The soldiers kept throwing grenades deeper into the cave, using the shockwaves and shrapnel from the explosions to search for any remaining enemy forces.

Just then, an explosion occurred nearby, and a Type 89 grenade exploded. The platoon leader, who had been leading the charge, suddenly felt a sharp pain coming from all over his body.

Pain from wounds was everywhere—on my head, arms, legs…

The wound from the shrapnel kept oozing blood, soaking his clothes and causing him waves of excruciating pain and dizziness.

"Platoon leader..." a soldier next to him shouted and quickly came over to help him up.

"Platoon leader, shall I help you down?"

"No way... I'd rather die than go down there until I've wiped out the Japanese devils inside!" the platoon leader replied through gritted teeth, picking up his Thompson submachine gun and continuing to charge into the cave.

(End of this chapter)