World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The farmhouse had been reduced to a burning ruin.

Matsumoto rushed into the still-smoking ruins, shouting, "Sergeant! Oshima! Kawahara!"

"Here..." a faint voice came from the corner.

Matsumoto cleared away the rubble and thatch, and saw Yamada trapped under the collapsed roof beams, his face covered in blood, but still alive. Beside him, Oshima was struggling to lift the beams.

"Help!" Oshima shouted.

Matsumoto joined in, and the two of them, with all their might, finally managed to move the heavy roof beam slightly and drag Yamada out. Yamada's left leg was bent at an unnatural angle, clearly broken.

"Where are the others?" Matsumoto asked anxiously.

"Fujiwara and Kobayashi are over there..." Yamada said, enduring the pain, "Kawahara... Kawahara is at the window, the shells are coming straight at him..."

Matsumoto looked towards the window. There was only a pile of rubble and twisted metal—the remains of the Type 96 machine gun. Kawahara's body was buried underneath, with only one arm showing.

"There are three more on guard outside, I don't know..." Before Oshima could finish speaking, gunshots and shouts in Russian came from outside.

Russian troops are approaching.

"Get the gun!" Yamada said through gritted teeth, trying to stand up, but his leg injury caused him to fall back to the ground.

Matsumoto and Oshima grabbed their rifles, climbed to the section of the wall that was still relatively intact, and looked out through the firing port.

Russian soldiers had rushed within 100 meters, using shell craters and terrain cover to advance step by step. There were at least fifty or sixty of them.

"Ammunition!" Oshima checked his ammunition pouch. "I have two stripper clips and ten bullets left."

Matsumoto also pulled bullets from his pocket: "I have fifteen rounds left. As for grenades... I only have one left."

They looked at Yamada. The sergeant took his ammunition pouch from his waist and tossed it over: "Here, I have twenty rounds left. Two grenades."

In total, they had forty-five rifle bullets and three hand grenades to fight against fifty or sixty enemies.

"Looks like I'm going to die here today." Oshima smiled wryly, cocking his gun. "Matsumoto, do you regret coming with me?"

Matsumoto shook his head, aimed at a running Russian soldier, and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, and the soldier fell.

"No regrets," he said, pulling back the bolt as a spent cartridge ejected. "At least we were together."

The battle has begun.

The Russian troops, clearly realizing the farmhouse's defenses had been severely weakened, quickened their advance. Matsumoto and Oshima took turns firing, striving for accuracy with every shot. But the enemy outnumbered them, and they were also returning fire.

Bullets thudded against the wall. Shards flew, and smoke billowed. Matsumoto felt a burning sensation on his cheek, reached up to touch it, and found blood—a cut from flying shards.

"Left! They're coming from the left!" Oshima shouted.

Matsumoto turned his head and saw three Russian soldiers rushing within thirty meters, throwing grenades at the farmhouse. Two grenades tumbled through the air as they flew towards him.

"Grenade!" Matsumoto shouted, grabbing his last Type 91 grenade, pulling the pin, holding it in his hand for two seconds, and then throwing it back forcefully.

Two Russian-made grenades exploded outside the farmhouse, shaking the crumbling walls. Matsumoto's grenade clashed with a Russian grenade in mid-air before exploding among the Russian soldiers. Screams erupted.

But more enemies came.

"Out of bullets!" Oshima shouted, his ammunition pouch empty.

Matsumoto tossed him his last bridge clamp: "Let's share!"

Five bullets, to be shared between two people.

Yamada dragged his injured leg over, holding his two grenades in his hand: "Use these, wait for them to get closer."

The Russian troops seemed to realize that the defenders were running out of ammunition, and their charge became even bolder. A dozen soldiers stood up, bayonets at the ready, and charged straight at them.

"For the locusts!" Oshima suddenly stood up, grabbed his bayonet, and jumped out of cover.

"Oshima! Come back!" Matsumoto shouted, but it was too late.

Oshima charged into the enemy ranks like a madman. A Russian soldier fired at him, the bullet striking his shoulder, but he didn't stop, continuing his charge and stabbing the soldier in the chest with his bayonet. A second Russian soldier attacked from the side, Oshima turned to block, but a third soldier's bayonet had already pierced his abdomen.

Matsumoto saw Oshima kneel on the ground, and then more bayonets pierced his body.

"Ah—!" Matsumoto roared like a wild beast, stood up and fired repeatedly. Two bullets, and two Russian soldiers fell. But the bolt rang out empty—out of ammunition.

Russian soldiers surrounded them, their bayonets gleaming coldly in the dim light.

Matsumoto put down his rifle and drew his entrenching tool from his waist—his last weapon. Yamada struggled to stand up, but his leg injury rendered him immobile.

Just then, a strange sound came from behind.

It was a dull, rhythmic explosion, but far more powerful than a hand grenade. The shells landed among the Russian troops, precise and deadly. They weren't German heavy artillery; the explosive force was less, but the rate of fire was very high.

Matsumoto turned his head and saw about 300 meters away, several Japanese soldiers operating a strange little cannon. The cannon was short, with two tripods; one soldier was aiming, and the other was loading. After each shot was fired, the cannon would recoil, then quickly return to its original position and fire again.

"That's..." Yamada's eyes widened. "The Type 92 infantry gun! Our infantry gun!"

It was indeed the Type 92 infantry gun provided by Lan Fang. The shells landed in the Russian charging formation as if they had eyes, each shell killing three or four men. The Russian charge was interrupted, and the survivors began to retreat, seeking cover.

Immediately afterwards, more Japanese soldiers rushed up from the rear, firing rifles and machine guns. Reinforcements had arrived.

Matsumoto slumped to the ground, the entrenching tool slipping from his hand. He looked at Oshima's corpse, at the ruins where Kawahara had been buried, at the severely wounded Yamada, and at the corpses scattered all over the farmhouse.

The battle was over; they had held the high ground.

Of the thirteen men in the squad, only three remained: Matsumoto, the seriously wounded Yamada, and a private who had been on guard outside and was now rejoining the unit. The others were all dead.

A Japanese lieutenant led his soldiers into the ruins of a farmhouse: "Is anyone still alive?"

"Here." Matsumoto raised his hand.

The lieutenant walked over, saw Yamada's leg injury, and immediately called for a medic. Then he looked at Matsumoto: "Which unit are you from?"

"Third Battalion, Second Company, First Squadron," Matsumoto answered mechanically.

"You held the key position." The lieutenant patted him on the shoulder. "Well done. We're taking over here now. You can go and rest in the back."

The medics carried Yamada away. Matsumoto stood up and walked to Oshima's body. He knelt down, closed Oshima's still-open eyes, and took a photograph from his pocket—a family photo of Oshima, his parents and two younger sisters, all smiling.

Matsumoto put the photo back in Oshima's breast pocket, then stood up and followed the medic to the back.