The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

The third mortar shot was fired, but it missed its mark and hit about twenty meters south of the trench. The explosion rang out, and dirt flew up, covering Joseph's uniform with a layer of dust.

One hundred and ten meters.

"Bolton."

Bolton's MG08 opened fire, this time not in bursts, but in a long burst, "rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat," the barrel switching back and forth between several dense areas, hitting the key positions in the advancing column: machine gunners, messengers, and those at the forefront. The German ranks immediately scattered, rushing into the shell craters.

O'Connor was on the top edge, and this time he didn't hold back. He knew that once the Germans spread out, he would have to suppress them. He fired faster than usual, firing in bursts, then switching targets, firing in bursts, then switching targets.

Green hoisted the Lewis gun onto the top edge on the left and fired it with a crisp, rapid "rat-a-tat-tat," specifically to suppress the German left flank group attempting to outflank them.

After the German troops spread out in front, they lost their momentum and began to search for firing positions in the shell craters, turning it into a tug-of-war of mutual suppression.

The mortars were still firing, the fourth and fifth shots, the impact points starting to move closer to the trenches.

"McDonald—" Harris's voice was urgent, "North sandbags!"

McDonald was already moving. The sixth mortar shell landed a meter away from the edge of the trench, and the explosion collapsed half of the sandbag pile. McDonald and two men braved the gunfire to rebuild it, throwing sandbags one by one, compacting them, and finishing in thirty seconds.

"The mortars need to take care of this," Harris ran over and squatted down next to Joseph. "A few more rounds and they'll be inside!"

"Location?"

"To the north, based on the impact points of the shells, it's about 450 meters away, in the depression behind the trench."

Joseph pulled out the German garrison map, looked at it in the direction of the artillery fire for two seconds, and pointed to a location: "Right here."

Harris glanced at it: "How confident are you?"

"Seventy percent."

"What about the remaining 30%?"

"That means it missed, but there's no real loss."

Harris didn't ask any more questions and turned to find Parnell—his squad had been specially transferred from the artillery company by Lieutenant Colonel Chatterley, the battalion commander, before the expedition. After Joseph's company occupied the German trenches, they immediately followed and set up their mortars.

Parnell was checking the angles, adjusting the elevation, and looking at the level on the garrison map, using the coordinates marked by Joseph.

"Okay," he said.

"Hit," Harris said.

Parnell loaded the shell into the barrel, boom—the first shot went astray, landing behind the target, but very close. Parnell adjusted the elevation slightly, loaded another shell, boom.

The explosion came from the north, and then the German mortars fell silent.

Someone in the trench let out a somewhat restrained "good," which was nudged by the elbow of the person next to him, but not completely suppressed.

The second wave of attacks stopped.

*****************

10:04.

People are treating the wounded in the trenches.

Army medic Hodge knelt in the trench, his knees pressed against the muddy ground, bandaging a soldier who had been shot in the leg. His hands moved swiftly, wrapping the bandage three times, tying a knot, cutting it, and moving on to the next. This was the eighth wounded soldier he had treated that day; he had already used two-thirds of his first-aid kit.

Joseph crouched down and glanced at the wound: "How many are seriously injured?"

“Three,” Hodge said without looking up. “Atkins’ abdomen, I’m not sure, there might be internal bleeding; Jason’s shoulder, the bone is broken, he can’t use a gun; Turner’s head, I’ve dealt with it first, he’s conscious, but don’t let him be an observer today.”

"Okay, what about minor injuries?"

"Today's standard is that anyone who can stand and use a gun is considered to have a minor injury, so that makes up the other nine."

Twelve wounded. There are still one hundred and eighty-eight able-bodied soldiers.

Joseph memorized the number, walked over to the ammunition station, and had the soldier in charge of counting read out the stock. He took out his notebook and listened while taking notes.

Rifle ammunition: sufficient, but not plentiful. Hand grenades: sixteen rounds. MG08 ammunition: approximately three hundred rounds remaining. Lewis gun ammunition: three full magazines plus one and a half magazines. Parnell's Stokes mortar: eight rounds remaining.

He closed the notebook and put it in his pocket.

The system interface appeared in his field of vision, transparent, superimposed on the smoke of the battlefield. In that one-cubic-meter personal storage space, there was only a little bit left:

Rifle ammunition, three magazines, ninety rounds.

Two smoke grenades.

Four hand grenades.

Before setting off, he crammed the one-cubic-meter space to the brim—rifle bullets, grenades, smoke grenades, Lewis machine gun ammunition trays, as much as he could carry. He knew that ammunition would always be used up faster than expected, but he didn't expect that even his personal supplies were almost gone.

He closed the interface, walked to the south side of the trench, and peeked behind him.

The south is empty. There are no reinforcements. There is no sign of any advance.

O'Connor walked over and stood next to Joseph, also looking south.

"Reinforcements should be here," he said calmly. "Lieutenant Colonel Chatterley should have seen our signal flares."

"You should have seen it."

"Then why haven't they arrived yet?"

"Because they're fighting too."

O'Connor didn't say anything more.

All they can do is hold on.

********************

10:27.

The third wave was more intense than the first two.

This time, the German army changed its tactics. Instead of pressing from the front, it advanced in three columns simultaneously from the left, center, and right. Moreover, this time there was no mortar cover; it was all infantry, launching a rapid assault.

Joseph saw them rush out from behind the breastwork, plunge into the first crater, and then immediately get up and rush towards the second crater. Their movements were very quick, and each exposure lasted no more than four seconds.

He stared at it for a few seconds.

He was very familiar with this set of movements. The basic logic of this set of movements was the same as the one he had practiced for three months.

There were veterans in the German army who knew how to survive in front of machine guns.

On the battlefield in 1916, there was no official manual that systematically taught soldiers how to move in front of machine guns and how to use the terrain.

But the battlefield teaches.

The surviving veterans traded the lives of their comrades for a set of fragmented ideas: the memories of the paths to death that survived each charge.

The German army later compiled this information into regulations and trained a special assault force called the Stormstrike Force.

But that happened later.

The people rushing over now have simply figured out the same set of answers themselves.

"Bolton," he said, "left wing, don't hold back, attack."

Bolton's MG08 started firing, and this time he really didn't hold back. A long string of "rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat" shots were fired at the German troops advancing on the left flank, suppressing the first row of forwards on the left. The forwards fell down, and the people behind them got stuck in the shell craters and couldn't get out.

"Right flank!"

Tom's rifle density increased, and the right flank was also suppressed, halting the advance.

The problem is in the middle. Those veterans in the middle are incredibly fast, running in pairs, taking turns providing cover, moving quickly from one shell crater to another. They've already advanced to 120 meters, and the next shell crater is about 90 meters away. If they get any closer, the grenades will be effective.

"Mid lane! We can't hold mid lane anymore—" someone shouted, their voice clearly tense.