World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Hans walked over, his usual professional expression restored.

"Time's up, Major Nakamura. Good luck."

"Same to you."

The two shook hands and then went to their respective posts.

At exactly six o'clock, just as the eastern sky was beginning to lighten, the shelling began.

Hundreds of German artillery pieces opened fire simultaneously, shells streaking across the dawn sky like a meteor shower of steel, falling on the distant Russian positions. Explosions echoed continuously, the earth trembled, and even the air vibrated.

Nakamura observed the effects of the shelling through binoculars. The distant hilltops were shrouded in fire and smoke, with no signs of life visible.

The shelling lasted for thirty minutes. Then, the whistle blew, and the first wave of German soldiers leaped out of their trenches and began their charge.

The final offensive has begun.

Nakamura took a deep breath, drew his sword, and pointed it in the direction of the artillery fire.

"Third Battalion, advance!"

The soldiers shouted and followed him out of the woods, rushing towards the snowfield that had been ravaged by artillery fire.

Above them, dawn finally broke, and sunlight pierced the clouds, shining on this land torn apart by war. The frozen lake reflected a blood-red light, the forest burned, and the sky was stained a dirty gray by gunpowder smoke.

In the midst of this chaos, the machine gun known as the "crooked-handle" will once again roar, writing its first combat record with bullets—imperfect, but effective; unreliable, but usable.

Just like the soldiers who use it, on the icy plains of a foreign land, a clear-cut massacre is taking place for a vague purpose.

The whistling sound of shells tearing through the air became the only background music on this land.

Koji Matsumoto lay prone on the edge of a bomb crater, his ears stuffed with cotton given to him by the Germans, but the shockwave from the explosion still made him feel like his insides were churning. Soil, snow, and other debris he didn't recognize fell from the sky like raindrops, hitting his helmet with dull thuds.

"Don't look up! Don't look up at all!"

Sergeant Yamada's shouts could be barely heard between the explosions. This forty-year-old veteran was the captain of Matsumoto's unit, and he had three scars on his face, all from the Russo-Japanese War.

Matsumoto buried his face in the cold earth, tasting gunpowder, blood, and a metallic flavor. He remembered winters in his hometown of Hokkaido, where the snow was just as thick, but it didn't taste like this. His father would dig potatoes in the snow, his mother would cook miso soup inside, and his younger siblings would gather around the stove…

"Koji! What are you thinking about!"

Oshima, who was next to him, nudged him with his elbow. Oshima was from the same hometown as Matsumoto; the two had enlisted together, boarded the transport ship together, and were now lying together in this damned bomb crater.

"I wasn't thinking about anything." Matsumoto shook his head, spitting out the dirt in his mouth. "How much longer will the shelling last?"

"Who knows?" Oshima grinned, his missing front tooth making his smile look comical against his grime-covered face. "The Germans have plenty of shells. Let them bomb us. The longer they bomb, the safer we'll be when we charge."

That's what he said, but Matsumoto could see that Oshima's hand holding the gun was trembling slightly.

Their squad had thirteen men, all crammed into this crater less than ten meters in diameter. Steam was still rising from the edge of the crater, indicating it had been recently blasted. Matsumoto saw a half-frozen arm at the bottom of the crater, wearing a grey Russian army overcoat, its fingers curled and pointing to the sky.

"Hey, look over there," Private Kobayashi, sitting opposite, said in a low voice.

Matsumoto looked in the direction he was pointing. About two hundred meters away, a group of German soldiers leaped out of their hiding places and advanced in skirmish lines towards the front of the artillery barrage. Their movements were skilled and swift, using every shell crater and every piece of terrain for cover as they advanced in shifts.

"The Germans are in," Sergeant Yamada said, squinting. "Our turn. Check our equipment!"

The soldiers began their final preparations. Matsumoto checked his Type 38 rifle, pulled the bolt to make sure the chamber was clean, and then took out five stripper clips, each with five rounds, from his ammunition pouch and neatly inserted them into the ammunition pouch on his chest.

"Grenade!" Yamada shouted.

Matsumoto took out two Type 91 hand grenades from the side pocket of his backpack, unscrewed the safety caps to reveal the pull rings, and hung them on his belt in a convenient position.

"Machine gun team!"

"Here!" answered Corporal Kawahara, the machine gunner, who was kneeling in the center of the shell crater, fiddling with the Type 96 machine gun. Assistant gunner Ono helped by inserting a hopper into the feed port on the left side of the machine gun.

"Kawahara, it's up to you today." Yamada patted Kawahara on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, Sergeant." Kawahara grinned, but Matsumoto noticed the sweat on his forehead. "This thing got stuck yesterday, but I cleaned it thoroughly today, so it won't malfunction."

The intensity of the shelling began to decrease. The previously continuous explosions became intermittent booms. The distant sky was stained a dirty yellowish-brown by the smoke.

"Ready!" Yamada stood up, half of his body sticking out of the edge of the crater, observing the area ahead.

Matsumoto cautiously raised his head. The sight before him made him gasp.

Yesterday it was a flat, snow-covered plain; now it's like the surface of the moon. Craters of all sizes are scattered everywhere, some still smoking. Broken logs, shredded corpses, and twisted metal debris are strewn all over the place. Further away, you can vaguely see collapsed Russian trenches and several burning earthworks.

"The Germans have broken through the first line of defense," Yamada judged. "See? The Russians are retreating."

Indeed, Matsumoto saw some gray figures running backward, but many more lay motionless in the snow.

The whistle blew, sharp and piercing.

"Forward!" Yamada jumped out of the crater.

Matsumoto took a deep breath and jumped out. He almost slipped and fell on the soft, churned earth. He steadied himself, picked up his rifle, and followed Yamada forward.

The squad advanced in a wedge formation. Kawahara and Ono's machine gun team were in the middle, while the others were scattered on the flanks. Everyone was running and jumping, rushing from one shell crater to another.

For the first few hundred meters, there was no resistance. Only sporadic gunfire could be heard from afar. Matsumoto even began to think that perhaps the battle was over, and the Russians' will had been destroyed by the artillery fire.

Then he heard that voice.

It was a deep, persistent sound, like tearing through thick canvas.

"Maxim!" Yamada shouted, "Get down! Everyone get down!"

Matsumoto instinctively threw himself to the ground, burying his face in the snow. The next second, bullets swept over his head like hailstones, hitting the snow behind him and kicking up plumes of snow.

"Location! Location found!" Yamada roared.

Matsumoto cautiously raised his head, searching for the machine gun emplacement through the billowing smoke. The sound came from a hill about three hundred meters to his left. There were several half-ruined farmhouses there, and the machine gun should be hidden in one of them.

"Ten o'clock! Farmhouse!" Oshima shouted, having found his target.