The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

12:03.

The German army moved at noon.

This time it's completely different.

Without probing, without splitting up, and without waiting for a signal, the Germans pressed in directly from the north. A reinforced company, in dense formation, advanced towards the front of the trench, with the left and right flanks following simultaneously, covering the entire width of the trench—this was not a charge tactic, but a forced clearing, overwhelming the British troops in the trench with sheer numbers.

"They've all gone!" O'Connor shrank down from the top edge, his voice unusually uneasy. "At least three hundred men, the entire front!"

At that moment, Joseph stood in the trench and looked at everyone.

He didn't speak.

He raised his hand and pointed upwards—all to the top edge, fire all the shots.

One hundred and eighty men craned their necks to the top edge, raising all their rifles, pistols, captured German rifles, and any guns they could find, aiming them at the advancing column to the north.

The MG08 opened fire. No more bursts; this time it was full-speed fire. "Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat," bullets flew outwards, into the densely advancing ranks. The German vanguard broke apart; some fell, but those behind continued to push forward—the momentum of three hundred men could not be stopped by a single machine gun.

"Grenades!" Joseph shouted, "Throw them all when the Germans get within 100 meters!"

The soldiers used the slingshots Joseph had made to throw the grenades. They arced northwards, exploding in the distance—one, two, three—a series of explosions ripped through the advancing German ranks, scattering them, but they quickly reformed.

The German troops were at 100 meters, 90 meters, and 80 meters.

"Green, how much Lewis is left?"

"Last ping!" Green shouted, his voice a little hoarse. "Half a ping!"

"Save your blows!"

"O'Connor," Joseph said, "whatever."

O'Connor knew what this meant. He swapped his rifle for a captured revolver—a close-quarters weapon, meaning the enemy was too close.

He raised his pistol and fired six shots from the top edge, then spun the barrel and fired another six shots, targeting the German soldiers who had come within seventy or eighty meters.

"The right flank is about to break down!" Tom's voice came from the right, filled with anxiety. "Some of them have circled around to my right, and I don't have enough men on my side—"

"Harris," Joseph turned, "one squad from the second platoon, go support the right flank!"

Harris was already moving. Without waiting for Joseph to finish speaking, he patted the shoulders of a few people next to him and said, "Let's go," leading them to the right.

Someone shouted from the right side of the trench: "Grenade—"

A grenade landed in the trench, rolled, and there were three seconds left.

McDonald kicked the grenade into the corner of the trench, then lunged in the opposite direction—BOOM!

The grenade exploded in the corner of the trench, and dirt and rubble hit his back. He lay on the ground, catching his breath, then got up, checked himself, and finding no penetrating wounds, stood up and picked up his rifle again.

"McDonald—" Tom called from the side.

"It's okay," McDonald said, with his usual Scottish nonchalance. "Don't get distracted."

The German troops are eighty meters away.

The MG08 made a muffled "click".

Bolton pushed the gun aside, took the last ammunition box from Shaw, pulled out the ammunition belt and fed it into the feed port. With a "click," he loaded the bullet and continued firing.

This is the last box.

Green's Lewis gun stopped—the magazine was empty. He emptied the magazine, and there was nothing inside.

He didn't put down his gun. Instead, he disassembled the rifle magazine and loaded the brass-cased bullets one by one into Lewis's disc magazine. His fingers trembled. He loaded seven, eight, then reloaded the rifle. "Rat-a-tat-tat"—it fired again. This wasn't the correct way to do it, but it worked.

Parnell, on the right rear of the trench, fired the last three shells from the Stokes mortar, then lowered the gun, looked at Joseph, and said nothing.

O'Connor fired the last few rounds from his pistol, picked up his rifle again, but he was also running low on ammunition. He picked up the magazine, weighed it in his palm, and then fired a round rhythmically, paused for three seconds, and fired another.

He did this to make the other side think that the trench still had plenty of firepower—to keep them guessing and make them hesitate a little longer.

Joseph still had two Mills grenades in his hand.

He didn't rush to throw it; he waited for the distance. When the German vanguard advanced to seventy meters, he tied the two together, bit open the fuse, waited two seconds, and then threw it forcefully.

The flashes of the explosion loomed at the edge of the trench, sending mud flying against Bolton's helmet, and the blast wave propelling rubble into the trench. The advance in that direction paused for a moment; some fell, some lay prone.

"MG08's almost here," Harris said as he walked over. "We should have enough rifle rounds for about two more minutes."

Joseph did not answer. He picked up his rifle and pointed it north.

Bolton's MG08 "da da da da da da" - then, "click".

Bolton looked down at the ammunition box, reached inside, and found it empty.

He raised his head, placed his hand on the gun, and paused for a moment.

Then he pushed aside the scorching hot MG08, turned around and grabbed the entrenching tool leaning against the trench wall—the tool's head was polished to a shine, and its edges had been specially sharpened.

A series of distinct, crisp sounds rang out from the trenches.

That was the sound of a bayonet hitting its groove.

The German troops were at 70 meters. 60 meters.

The gunfire in the trenches was sparse, but every shot was aimed; none of them were fired in a panic.

McDonald took out a piece of sapper explosive, held it in his hand, glanced at the ground about fifty meters to the north, but didn't throw it. He held it in his hand, waiting for a closer distance.

Joseph rested his rifle on the top edge, fired a shot at the advancing column, pulled the bolt, and fired another.

The German troops were fifty meters away.

Harris pointed to the southern section of the trench. "Wilkins, Parnell, pull back and hold the pass—"

Wilkins took two steps back to the south, then his legs suddenly gave way. He knelt down on one knee, looked down, and said nothing, but his expression changed.

Joseph looked over: "What's wrong?"

Joseph took a few steps in that direction and noticed that at the southern end of the trench, about thirty meters behind them, there was a section of ground that was a different color from the surrounding area—the soil was a darker, looser color with fine cracks on the surface.

"McDonald," he said, "look at that piece of land at the south end."

McDonald was already watching. He walked over, squatted down, and stomped on it with his boot.

A hollow, unsettling feeling came from beneath my feet, as if I were stepping on a thin layer of skin.

Joseph walked over, squatted down, and pressed his hands to the ground—

Without warning, the ground suddenly collapsed.