World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Boom!

The barbed wire was blown open, creating a five-meter-wide gap.

"Charge—!"

The crowd surged toward the breach. Just as Imamura stood up, he saw the demolition expert crawl out of the crater, waving and smiling at him—then a mortar shell fell, and the man vanished, leaving only a drifting steel helmet.

In the French command post on the reverse slope of Hill 304, General Philippe Pétain, commander of the Second Army, had just been woken up by his staff. The 59-year-old veteran, wearing a military overcoat, walked to the observation post and listened to the front-line reports with a solemn expression.

"General, the Germans have launched a massive offensive in the C3 to C7 area! The artillery fire is extremely intense, and the first line of defense has been breached in several places!"

"How many troops do you have?"

"At least 20,000 men, General. And... scouts report that the attacking force is wearing German uniforms, but their faces are Asian."

Pétain frowned: "Asians? People from Japan? What are they doing on the Western Front?"

"I don't know. But their tactics were unique: their formations were denser than the Germans' during charges, and their hand-to-hand combat was extremely fierce. Our machine guns inflicted heavy casualties, but they seemed... unconcerned about losing lives."

Pétain paused for a few seconds, then walked to the map: "Order the 37th Reserve Division to reinforce section C5. Concentrate artillery fire to seal the breach. Tell the soldiers that Verdun cannot retreat an inch."

"yes!"

After the staff officer ran out, Pétain looked out the window again. In the morning light, flames soared into the sky towards the front lines. He murmured to himself, "The people of Japan... just how many countries have been dragged into this war?"

Imamura finally broke through the gap in the barbed wire and jumped into the French army's first trench.

The trenches were a scene of utter devastation. Corpses lay strewn about, some killed by artillery fire, others torn apart by shrapnel. A few surviving French soldiers were organizing a resistance, but they were quickly overwhelmed by the surging in of Japanese soldiers.

The melee began.

This was the fighting style that the Japanese army excelled at. Fifty-centimeter-long Type 30 bayonets swung in the narrow trenches, the German-uniformed bodies displaying masterful bayonet techniques. Imamura thrust forward, the bayonet piercing the chest of a French corporal. The man's blue eyes widened, blood and foam gushed from his mouth, and his finger pulled the trigger—the muzzle pointed upwards, the bullet piercing the sandbag.

Sergeant Yoshida was even more ruthless. He didn't use a bayonet, but drew his saber. In a flash, a French machine gunner's head was almost completely severed. Blood splattered on the trench wall, appearing an eerie dark red in the morning light.

Kobayashi killed for the first time. He stabbed a young French soldier in the abdomen, who, as he fell, grabbed Kobayashi's rifle barrel and, with his last breath, cursed something in French. Kobayashi forcefully pulled out the bayonet, then knelt in the mud and vomited.

"Get up! Keep going!" Imamura pulled him to his feet. "This is just the first line of defense!"

They advanced deeper into the trenches. The French resistance grew increasingly fierce. Grenades exploded in the confined spaces, shrapnel sweeping everything in its path. Imamura suffered a gash on his left arm, which he hastily bandaged with a torn bandage.

A second barbed wire fence appeared before them. This time, there was no demolition team—they had all perished on the way.

"Use corpses!" Yoshida roared.

The soldiers dragged the bodies of the fallen and threw them onto the barbed wire. French machine guns opened fire relentlessly, and men fell one after another. The corpses piled up higher and higher, gradually forming a "human carpet" on the barbed wire.

When Imamura stepped on it, he felt a soft, yielding sensation beneath his feet. He recognized one of the bodies—it was seventeen-year-old Sato, shot in the back, his eyes still open, gazing in the direction of his hometown.

"Corporal! The French are counterattacking on the right flank!"

Imamura turned his head and saw about a platoon of French soldiers rushing out of the trench, the leading officer waving a pistol. The two sides clashed at a distance of less than twenty meters.

Bayonets against bayonets, rifle butts against rifle butts. The trenches turned into a battlefield of carnage.

Imamura was wrestling with a tall French sergeant. The sergeant was very strong, pinning Imamura against the trench wall and gripping his throat with both hands. Imamura reached for the entrenching tools at his waist and plunged them deep into the sergeant's ribs. The French sergeant screamed and released his grip, and Imamura seized the opportunity to pull out the tools and stab him once, twice, three times…

"Enough! He's dead!" Yoshida's voice pulled him back to reality.

Imamura, panting heavily, pushed the corpse aside. His hands and face were covered in blood, indistinguishable between his own and the enemy's.

Kobayashi was crying. He sat beside the body of a French soldier, a blond young man who looked no more than twenty, with a bayonet protruding from his chest. In his hand, Kobayashi held an open pocket watch; inside the cover was a photograph—a smiling French girl.

"He said... he said he's getting married next month..." Kobayashi murmured in Japanese, even though the deceased couldn't understand him at all.

Yoshida walked over and slapped Kobayashi across the face: "Wake up! This is a battlefield! It's either kill or be killed!"

"But Sergeant, why are we here? Why are we killing French people on French soil? What does this have to do with the Empire?"

This question silenced Yoshida. After a few seconds, he said, "Because of orders. Because we are soldiers. We'll think about the rest after we survive."

The communications soldier reappeared, his helmet gone, replaced by a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his head: "Sergeant! The regimental commander has ordered: Our battalion has broken through the first line of defense! Immediately maneuver to the flank of Hill 304 to coordinate with the second battalion's main attack!"

How many people are left?

The communications soldier's eyes dimmed: "Preliminary statistics... the First Battalion has suffered more than half its casualties. Seven officers of company level or above have been killed in action."

Yoshida closed his eyes and took a deep breath: "Understood. Order all squadrons to reorganize their battle formation. The wounded stay behind, those who can move continue forward."

Imamura checked the ammunition: two magazines and three grenades remained. The canteen had been punctured in the struggle and was empty.

"Corporal," Kobayashi wiped away his tears, stood up, and stuffed the French pocket watch into his pocket, "I will survive. I'm going to take this back and tell everyone... what happened here."

9:47 a.m., 3rd Division Command Post.

Shiba Goro lowered his binoculars, his face expressionless. Battle reports from the front lines piled on the table: the 3rd Division suffered 2317 dead, 1894 seriously wounded, and the number of lightly wounded was negligible. Total casualties across the eight divisions were estimated to have exceeded eight thousand.

The results were also significant: the entire front broke through the French first line of defense, advancing an average depth of 1.5 kilometers. Among them, the 3rd Division was responsible for the eastern foothills of Hill 304, which had advanced 2.3 kilometers, leaving only the last line of defense between them and the main peak.

"General," Major Krauser entered, unable to hide his excitement, "General Seeker called to congratulate us! He said the bravery of the Japanese troops has exceeded everyone's expectations! At this rate, we can take Hill 304 and Dead Man's Mountain before sunset today!"

Instead of responding to the congratulations, Shiba Goro asked, "How is the situation with the wounded after their evacuation?"

"Uh... the German medical team is doing everything they can to save lives. But as you know, frontline aid stations have limited capacity, and seriously wounded soldiers may have to wait in line for surgery."

"A queue?" Shiba Goro finally turned his head, his eyes cold. "Major, those soldiers are bleeding for Germany. I hope they can at least receive timely medical treatment."

Krauser's smile froze: "Of course, General. I will personally oversee the medical department."