World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

That wasn't sound; it was the materialization of sound. The sonic waves from the simultaneous roar of two thousand nine hundred cannons turned the air into a solid wall, slamming into the chests of everyone present. The observation post's glass window shattered instantly, and Morrison felt something break in his ear, warm liquid flowing out—blood.

He forced himself to open his eyes and look ahead.

A vision of hell.

The entire German defensive line was engulfed in a continuous sea of ​​fire. The flashes of explosions blended into one, making it impossible to distinguish individual blasts. Black soil, sawdust, and fragments of barbed wire were hurled hundreds of feet into the air, then fell like black rain. Thick smoke billowed and rose like living things, forming a massive mushroom cloud in the pre-dawn sky.

The rhythm of the artillery fire quickly took shape: the deep rumble of heavy artillery like a continuous earthquake, the sharp bursts of medium-caliber guns like tearing cloth, and the muffled thuds of mortars like the stomping of giants. The sounds blended together, becoming a roar beyond human comprehension—this was the war symphony of the industrial age, a death symphony composed of steel and gunpowder.

At the gun emplacements, the situation was even more chaotic. Beside a 9.2-inch howitzer in the Canadian heavy artillery battalion, the loaders had already taken off their shirts, carrying shells shirtless. Each shell weighed 130 kilograms and required four men with a crane to load. The gun fired every two minutes, each recoil causing the ground to tremble.

"Quick! Quick! Don't stop!" the gunner roared, though no one could hear him—everyone was temporarily deaf and could only communicate through gestures and lip movements.

The cannon barrel quickly became scalding hot, evaporating white steam in the morning mist. The pungent smell of burning propellant filled the air, mixed with the earthy odor and… a faint, indescribable acrid smell. It was the smell of an artillery shell hitting organic matter.

The shelling continued for an hour, two hours, three hours. The sun rose, but was obscured by thick smoke, becoming a dim, orange-red disc, like a bloodshot eye, coldly watching the hell on earth below.

The German first line of defense was no longer visible. Only billowing smoke and flames remained. The observer reported: the barbed wire had been completely destroyed, most of the trenches had collapsed, and all surface fortifications had been leveled.

Command is very satisfied. The plan is being executed perfectly.

What they didn't know was that there weren't many German soldiers left in those trenches covered by artillery fire.

The German second line of defense, a bunker twelve meters underground, at 9:7 AM on July 28.

The air was so thick that you could almost see the suspended dust particles. The dim yellow kerosene lamp cast flickering shadows on the walls, like a group of restless ghosts. The bunker was crammed with people—mainly remnants of the Japanese 3rd Division, along with a small number of German liaison officers and signalmen.

The tremors were constant. A muffled thunderous roar echoed overhead. With each heavy artillery strike, the entire bunker trembled like a toy box being shaken by a giant, dust and debris raining down from the cracks in the ceiling. The soldiers huddled in corners, hands covering their ears, eyes shut, lips trembling silently.

Lieutenant General Shiba Goro sat at the only folding table, trying to mark the key areas of British shelling on a map. But his fingers trembled, and the pencil lines he drew were crooked and uneven. This wasn't fear—he had experienced far more intense shelling, in Lushun, in Fengtian. It was a purely physiological reaction, the devastation of the nervous system by the continuous tremors.

"The fifth time..." he murmured. Each particularly strong tremor meant that a heavy artillery shell had hit directly above the bunker. Tiny cracks had already appeared in the concrete ceiling.

The communications soldier, wearing headphones, tried to intercept radio signals, but the static interference was too strong, and all he could hear was a buzzing noise.

German liaison officer Captain von Stein crawled over, his face covered in dust: "General! The observation post reports that the first line of defense has been completely destroyed! The British thought we had deployed our main force there, but in reality, there are only three sentry companies!"

"What about casualties?"

"Most of them were evacuated in time. But the shelling was too intense; many sections of the trenches collapsed, and at least two hundred people were trapped on the first line of defense..." Stein paused, "...and are probably gone."

Shiba Goro nodded. This was the price of "flexible defense": trading space for time, land for lives. It seemed clever, but on those abandoned lands, there were still people who couldn't evacuate.

"When will our artillery counterattack?" he asked.

"We have to wait for the British infantry to charge." Stein glanced at his pocket watch. "According to the plan, the British bombardment will continue until noon, and then the infantry will begin their attack. That's when our artillery will open fire to cover their path of charge."

"When will our troops enter the position?"

"Five minutes before the shelling stops," Stein said, pointing to the map. "You're in charge of sections B3 to B7. The terrain there is open, with no natural cover, making it one of the most likely main attack directions the British will choose."

Shiba Goro stared at the open wheat field on the map. The golden wheat should have been ripe, but it was now surely scorched earth by artillery fire. There was nowhere to hide, only barren land and a few remaining shell craters.

"My troops..." he said hoarsely, "The 3rd Division has less than 5,000 combat-ready men. And we have to defend a two-kilometer-wide front. On average, there are only two and a half men per meter of the defensive line."

"I know, General." Stein looked away. "But this is the order. All of the Second Army's reserves are to be used in more critical areas. You here... need to hold out until reinforcements arrive."

When will the reinforcements arrive?

"Within 48 hours".

Shiba Goro laughed, a cold laugh: "Captain, do you think we can hold off a British force fifty times our size for 48 hours in this terrain?"

Stein remained silent. The answer was obvious.

Just then, the door to the bunker was pushed open, and a man stumbled in. It was Corporal Imamura, his face covered in blood, his left arm hastily bandaged with ripped strips of his uniform cloth, the cloth already soaked with blood.

"Division Commander!" Imamura shouted hoarsely, "The 3rd Regiment's underground bunker has been hit directly! It's collapsed! At least three hundred men are trapped inside!"

Shiba Goro suddenly stood up: "The position!"

"East of Block B5! We tried to excavate, but the shelling was too intense; the people who went out couldn't even stand up!"

Stein grabbed Shiba Inu's arm: "General, we can't go out! The surface artillery fire is so intense right now, going out means certain death!"

"My soldiers are inside!" Shiba Goro roared.

"That's war too!" Stein raised his voice. "If you go out, you'll die! And then who will command the remaining troops?"

The two men stared at each other. The roar of artillery fire continued overhead, like a never-ending death knell.

Finally, Shiba Goro slowly sat down. He closed his eyes, his fingers digging deeply into his palms until they bled.

"Give the order..." His voice was barely audible, "Abandon digging. Everyone... hold your ground and wait."

Imamura stared blankly at the division commander, then slowly lowered his head, his shoulders beginning to tremble. It was a silent weeping, insignificant amidst the roar of the artillery fire.