World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The hand-to-hand combat lasted less than ten minutes.

When the Australian soldiers finally cleared this section of the defensive line, many of them vomited upon seeing the scene before them.

The trenches were littered with corpses, mostly Japanese soldiers, dressed in German uniforms but with Asian faces. Some bodies were mutilated—shattered by grenades, stabbed by bayonets, their skulls crushed by rifle butts. Blood soaked the scorched earth, forming patches of dark red mud.

A Japanese soldier was still alive. His abdomen had been slashed open with a bayonet, his intestines spilling out, but he was still struggling to get up. An Australian sergeant walked over, hesitated for a moment, and then gave him a quick death with his pistol.

"Who are these people?" a young soldier asked, his voice trembling.

"Japanese, probably," the sergeant said. "I heard the Germans hired them."

"They...they're completely insane. They could have just surrendered..."

"Maybe they don't know what to do." The sergeant lit a cigarette, his hand trembling. "Maybe they think surrendering is worse than death."

Behind the defensive line, Shiba Goro witnessed the entire process through his binoculars. He saw his soldiers being cut down like straw, saw them charging forward despite knowing they were doomed, and saw the last section of the trench captured by the British.

His Third Division, which had five thousand men in the morning, now... probably has less than a thousand.

A mouthful of blood welled up in his throat, which he forced down, but more blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, and his vision blurred.

"General!" Captain Stein helped him up.

Shiba Goro pushed him away and struggled to reach the communications equipment: "Second Army Headquarters... The B5 section of the 3rd Division's defensive line has fallen... Requesting... requesting artillery fire to cover the area... along with... along with the soldiers we're still there..."

After saying those words, he collapsed. His heart couldn't take it anymore, and the 58-year-old veteran finally broke down.

Stein caught him and yelled into the microphone, "This is Block B5! We need medical support! General Chai is having a heart attack!"

Then he glanced at the map. After the British captured section B5, a gap appeared in the entire defensive line. If it wasn't plugged, the British could pour in through this gap and outflank the German positions on both sides.

He gritted his teeth and picked up another phone: "Artillery command? This is Captain von Stein. Coordinates B5, requesting intensive artillery fire. Repeat, requesting intensive artillery fire."

He paused for a moment, then added softly, "There...are still some of our people there."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, then a reply came: "Roger. The shelling will begin in five minutes."

Stein hung up the phone, looked at the unconscious Shiba Goro, and then looked at the battlefield outside where artillery fire raged.

That's how war is. For the greater good, someone always has to be sacrificed.

Now, those Japanese soldiers who are still fighting hard in the B5 area are about to be bombarded by their own troops.

At 2:30 p.m., on the southern side of the Somme front, in the offensive zone of the Indian 3rd Lahore Division.

The terrain here was slightly better—there were some remaining orchards and farmhouse ruins that offered cover. But the British bombardment was just as fierce, and the German lines were also bombarded beyond recognition.

The Indian soldiers crouched behind the attack line, most of them expressionless. They came from Punjab, Rajasthan, and Bangladesh, speaking different languages ​​and practicing different religions—Hinduism, Sikhism, and Islam. The only thing they had in common was that none of them had come here voluntarily.

Corporal Hajit Singh of the 15th Ludhiana Sikh Regiment was praying silently. He was a devout Sikh, wearing his signature turban and with his beard braided. According to the doctrine, he shouldn't kill. But this was war, and he was a soldier of the British Empire.

"Ten minutes to go." British Commander Major Roberts approached, a typical English gentleman who maintained impeccable appearance even on the front lines. "Men, remember: we are one of the Empire's most elite forces. Show the Germans the courage of the Indians!"

The translator translated the words into Urdu. The soldiers listened, but didn't react much. Courage? They didn't know what this war had to do with India. They were soldiers to support their families, nothing more.

The shelling stopped. A signal flare was launched.

"charge!"

Indian soldiers leaped from their trenches. Their charge formation was denser than the Australians'—a requirement imposed by British officers "to demonstrate discipline." The result was far heavier casualties when the German machine guns opened fire.

Hajit's platoon had barely advanced a hundred meters when they encountered fierce fire. Bullets from the MG08 machine gun swept across like scythes, and the soldiers in the front rank fell like toys. Some were hit in the head, their helmets deformed like cans; some were hit in the abdomen, screaming and rolling on the ground; some were broken in half at the waist.

"Scatter! Take cover!" the platoon leader roared, but his voice was drowned out by gunfire.

Hajit threw himself into a shell crater where a wounded soldier—a young Rajasthan—was already inside, shot in the thigh and bleeding profusely. Hajit tore off his headscarf and forcefully tied it around the wound.

"You'll be alright," he said in Hindi, though the other person probably couldn't understand.

"I want to go home..." the soldier cried. "I want to go back to Jaipur..."

More Indian soldiers jumped into the crater. The crater quickly filled with people, some alive, some dead, and some in between.

"We can't stay here!" a sergeant shouted. "Keep moving!"

But no one moved. Fear had frozen everyone in place.

A figure suddenly appeared at the edge of the shell crater—wearing a German uniform, but with an Asian face, bloodshot eyes, and holding a bayonet. It was a Japanese soldier who had infiltrated from the flank.

"Enemy!" someone screamed.

The Japanese soldier jumped into the shell crater, his bayonet plunging directly into the chest of an Indian soldier. He pulled out the bayonet and stabbed another. The movements were mechanical and efficient, like completing a task.

Hajit instinctively raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the man's shoulder, but the Japanese soldier only staggered and continued charging. Hajit fired again, this time hitting him in the abdomen. The man finally fell, but his hands were still moving, trying to grab Hajit's feet.

Hajit looked down at the Asian face, a face devoid of expression, with only empty eyes and tightly pressed lips. This person, like himself, came from the distant East and died on this unfamiliar land.

"Why..." Hajit murmured.

Major Roberts, who was on the observation post at the rear, saw this and angrily smashed his binoculars.

"Cowards! A bunch of cowards!" he roared. "A platoon of soldiers, scared off by a wounded enemy! Is this the army the Empire pays so much to maintain?"

The adjutant said cautiously, "Major, they are not British after all, and their fighting spirit..."

"I don't care who they are!" Roberts interrupted him. "They're soldiers, they have to obey orders! Pass the order: anyone who flinches will be court-martialed!"

The order was relayed to the front lines, but with limited effect. The Indian soldiers did resume their advance, but slowly and in loose formation, immediately dropping to the ground upon encountering suppressive fire. By the end of the afternoon, the 3rd Lahore Division had advanced less than 300 meters after suffering 800 casualties.

The situation was similar in other parts of the front: the Australian troops were brave but their tactics were simple and they suffered heavy losses in the face of the well-placed German strongpoints; the New Zealand troops were relatively experienced but too few in number; the Canadian troops performed the best, but their offensive areas had the most complex terrain and progressed slowly.

By sunset, the British forces had advanced an average depth of 900 meters across the entire 25-kilometer front. The deepest point was 1.2 kilometers, and the shallowest was only 300 meters.

The cost was: 19000 dead and 41000 wounded on the first day.

The German losses were much smaller, but still exceeded 10,000, with the majority coming from the Japanese forces.