World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

At 11:30 a.m., the British artillery bombardment began to subside.

It wasn't a halt, but a shift in targets. Heavy artillery began extending deep into the German lines, striking potential reserve troop concentrations and artillery positions. Medium-caliber artillery continued bombarding the front lines, but at half the density.

This is the signal for the infantry to charge.

Inside the British lines, soldiers from the Australian 5th Division crawled out of their bunkers. Most were farmers and miners, tall and with skin tanned bronze by the Australian sun. At this moment, their faces were pale, not from fear—but from the sight of the land ahead.

That place could no longer be called land. It was the surface of the moon, the gateway to hell. Craters stretched out one after another, some ten meters deep, filled with blood-red water. The scorched soil was still smoking, and the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, burnt meat, and… roasted flesh.

"God..." a young soldier murmured.

Lieutenant Alan Smith checked his pocket watch: "Ten minutes left. Check the equipment!"

The soldiers silently carried out their orders: checking the Lee-Enfield rifle magazines, bayonet catches, and grenade fuses. Many stuffed extra grenades into their pockets, while others took out photos of their families to look at before putting them back in their inner pockets.

"Remember!" Lieutenant Smith shouted, his voice carrying far in the relatively quiet air. "Maintain formation! Don't clump together! Use demolition charges on barbed wire, and grenades on machine gun positions! Our artillery has already turned the Germans into mincemeat; we're just going to take up positions!"

He himself didn't quite believe it. His experience in Gallipoli taught him that shelling could never eliminate all the enemy. There would always be survivors, and someone would always crawl out of the rubble and pull the trigger with their last strength.

But he had to say it. Morale needed to be maintained, even if it meant lying.

At exactly 12 noon, three green signal flares were launched into the sky.

"charge--!"

Three thousand Australian soldiers leaped out of their trenches and surged toward the scorched earth like a tidal wave.

The German second line of defense, section B5, 12:07 PM.

Shiba Goro saw the British charge through the observation slit. A dense mass of tanned figures, like an ant colony, covered the entire field of vision. Their charge wasn't fast—carrying thirty kilograms of equipment and trudging through the soft, cratered soil, it was impossible for them to be fast. But there were too many of them, a number that instilled despair.

"Get into position!" he roared the order.

The bunker doors were pushed open. Japanese soldiers poured out and rushed up the steps leading to the surface. As they passed the entrances to the bunkers where their comrades had been buried by the collapse, some would pause briefly to look at the sealed openings, but would then be pushed forward by those behind them.

The situation on the surface is worse than imagined.

The original trenches were gone, leaving only some remaining depressions. The barbed wire had been blasted into twisted metal fragments, scattered across the scorched earth. There were no bunkers, no machine gun emplacements, only a few surviving pieces of concrete offering limited cover.

Corporal Imamura's squad found a relatively intact trench—actually only half a meter deep, just deep enough to lie down in. Five men: Imamura himself, Sergeant Yoshida, Kobayashi, and two recruits whose names they couldn't even remember. They lay prone at the edge of the trench, setting up their rifles.

Kobayashi's hands were shaking. He tried to aim at the British troops in the distance, but the crosshairs in his field of vision were shaky.

"Take a deep breath," Sergeant Yoshida said, his voice unusually calm. "Aim at the officers, or those with machine guns. We can't take out all the ordinary soldiers."

"How far... is it?" a new recruit asked, his voice trembling with tears.

"Eight hundred meters," Imamura estimated. "Wait until they're four hundred meters away before opening fire. Conserve ammunition."

He glanced at the squad's ammunition: five rifles, two magazines per man, sixty rounds in total. Grenades? None. Grenade launchers? None. Machine guns? The entire Third Regiment had only three usable MG08s left, deployed elsewhere.

They had to use their five rifles to hold off at least a battalion of British troops.

The British troops closed to within 500 meters. Their faces were now clearly visible—young faces, most under twenty-five. They held rifles, their bayonets gleaming coldly in the sunlight, their movements mechanical and resolute.

"Ready..." Imamura said softly.

Four hundred meters.

"Fire!"

Five rifles fired simultaneously. The distance was too great, and the hit rate was low, but at least two British soldiers fell. The British formation was briefly disrupted, but they quickly regained their footing and continued their advance.

More gunfire erupted from all sides of the defensive line. The surviving German machine guns finally opened fire, the distinctive "tear-tearing" sound of the MG08 echoing across the battlefield. The charging Australian soldiers were cut down as if by an invisible scythe, with entire rows of the front rank falling.

But those behind them kept advancing. They began to run, crouch, and use shell craters for cover. Typical skirmish tactics.

"Reload!" Imamura emptied a magazine and frantically began reloading.

Sergeant Yoshida was a sharpshooter. He had already taken down six men, each shot aimed at the chest. But his hand was trembling—not from fear, but from muscle spasms caused by fatigue and malnutrition.

Kobayashi fired three shots, but missed every single one. His scope was filled with swaying figures, and he didn't know which one to shoot.

"Hold on!" Yoshida roared. "Aim at one, fire it, then find the next one!"

Three hundred meters. The British troops began to return fire. Bullets whizzed overhead, hitting the edge of the trench and kicking up dirt. A Japanese soldier was shot in the head and fell without uttering a sound.

"Medic!" someone shouted, but quickly realized there were no medics. All the medical personnel were in the rear bunkers and couldn't get up now.

Two hundred meters. The British troops quickened their pace. They began throwing grenades, but the distance was too great, and most landed on open ground. However, a few landed in the trenches, the explosions mingling with screams.

Imamura felt something hit his left shoulder, and it burned with pain. He looked down and saw a hole in his uniform, blood seeping out. A bullet graze.

"Corporal!" Kobayashi shouted.

"It's alright! Keep firing!"

One hundred and fifty meters. The British soldiers were close enough to see their eyes clearly. They were blue, brown, and green eyes, filled with fear, anger, and desperation. Both sides were fighting for survival, though neither understood why they were killing each other in this French field.

Sergeant Yoshida suddenly stood up. He threw away his rifle, which was empty of bullets, and drew his sword.

"Sergeant! What are you doing!" Imamura roared.

"Out of ammo!" Yoshida turned around, a maniacal grin spreading across his face. "Corporal, I'll teach you one last lesson: in close combat, momentum is more important than technique!"

He leaped out of the trench and charged at the nearest British soldier. The young Australian was startled and hastily raised his bayonet. Yoshida's saber slashed in an arc, striking the enemy's rifle barrel, sparks flying. The second strike severed two of the enemy's fingers. The third strike plunged into his throat.

Blood splattered on Yoshida's face, and he laughed like a demon.

More Japanese soldiers leaped out of the trenches. They knew they were running out of ammunition, knew that charging out like this was suicide, but they charged anyway. Better to die in the charge than be blown up by grenades in the trenches. At least… they'd look more like soldiers.

Kobayashi watched Yoshida's retreating figure. The old soldier, surrounded by five British soldiers, was still brandishing his saber. A bayonet pierced his abdomen; he grunted, then swung his sword back and severed one of the soldiers' arms. Another bayonet plunged into his back…

"No—!" Kobayashi screamed and leaped out of the trench. He charged at the British soldier who had killed Yoshida, bayonet in hand.

Imamura tried to grab him, but it was too late. He looked at his rifle, which had only five bullets left, and then at his surroundings: there were hardly any men left in the trench. It was either fight to the death or retreat.

He chose the third path.

"All troops! Fix bayonets! Charge!"

The last dozen or so Japanese soldiers leaped out of the trenches, rushing towards the British ranks like moths to a flame. They let out inhuman roars—desperate howls, frenzied outbursts, and a final protest against this absurd war.