World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Chapter 291 The Power of the Lanfang Cannon

"Those are new artillery pieces," said Captain Schmidt, the German observer standing nearby, pointing towards the artillery positions behind them. "They were provided by Lanfang, leFH 18, 105mm howitzers. They were only deployed last night."

Matsumoto followed his finger. About three kilometers away, six cannons were firing continuously. The muzzle flashes were particularly conspicuous in the pre-dawn twilight, and the whistling of the shells and the explosions formed a rhythmic symphony.

"The rate of fire is very fast." Schmidt glanced at his pocket watch. "Six to seven rounds per minute, twice as fast as our S.FH 13. And it sounds like the trajectory is flatter and the landing time is shorter."

Through the periscope, the Russian positions were shrouded in smoke and dust from the explosions. Earthworks were overturned, barbed wire was torn to shreds, and occasionally, bodies could be seen being thrown into the air by the blast waves.

"The shelling was effective," Schmidt calmly assessed. "But the real test came after the shelling ended. The Russians are very good at surviving under fire; their trenches are very deep."

The shelling lasted for twenty minutes. Then, signal flares were launched—green ones, indicating that the infantry had begun their attack.

Matsumoto adjusted the periscope and looked towards the riverbank. Japanese soldiers leaped out of their starting positions and advanced towards the river in skirmish lines. They were wearing newly issued winter camouflage uniforms, their white smocks barely visible against the snow.

"Is that the new unit?" Schmidt asked.

"13th Division, 25th Infantry Regiment," Matsumoto replied, while searching for Shinichi Muto in the crowd.

The soldiers reached the riverbank. The Neman River was not wide in this section, about fifty meters, but the current was rapid, and parts of the river were frozen. The engineers had already erected a makeshift pontoon bridge, but it was very unstable.

The first group of soldiers stepped onto the pontoon bridge. Just then, the Russian positions were revived.

Machine gun fire erupted from the smoke. Not just one, but at least three, creating a crossfire. Soldiers on the pontoon bridge fell like wheat being harvested, plunging into the icy river.

"Maxim!" Schmidt frowned. "The Russians have hidden machine guns in bunkers on the flanks, and our artillery fire missed them."

The attack stalled. The soldiers lay prone on the riverbank, pinned down by machine gun fire.

"Artillery! Requesting artillery support!" a frontline officer shouted into the phone.

The new artillery in the rear adjusted its firing parameters. Shells began landing near the Russian machine gun positions, but with limited effect—the bunkers were covered with thick layers of logs and soil, making them difficult to destroy unless hit directly.

"We need more precise firepower," Schmidt said. "Or..."

Before he could finish speaking, things changed on the front lines.

Several Japanese soldiers leaped out from behind their bunkers, carrying a strange weapon—a short-barreled weapon, like a grenade launcher, but thicker. They knelt on one knee, resting the weapon on their shoulders.

"What's that?" Schmidt raised his binoculars.

Matsumoto looked over as well. He had never seen this weapon before, but he had heard of it—Lanfang's newly developed "trench mortar," with a caliber of 89 mm, specifically designed for close-range indirect fire.

The soldiers loaded the shells and fired. The shells arced high over the riverbank and landed almost vertically above the Russian machine gun bunker. The explosions were muffled, but the effect was obvious—one machine gun went silent.

"Great!" Schmidt clapped his hands. "Indirect fire weapons are very effective against trench fortifications! What's the range?"

"About five hundred meters," Matsumoto replied, referring to the number he had seen in the training briefing.

More mortars were deployed. Under cover of fire, the Japanese soldiers reorganized their attack. This time they changed their tactics—instead of storming the pontoon bridge, they sent a portion of their troops across the river upstream to attempt to flank the enemy.

Matsumoto spotted Shinichi Muto among the troops crossing the river. The young man moved nimbly, leading a small squad across the ice. Bullets splashed around them, but no one flinched.

"Brave," Schmidt commented, "but the tactics were too direct. If it were the German army, they would have used smoke grenades for cover and engineers for demolition, instead of charging straight in like this."

That's the problem, Matsumoto thought. The Japanese army's bravery was impeccable, but their tactical thinking was still stuck in the Russo-Japanese War era. Faced with modern trench defense systems, bravery often meant greater casualties.

Muto's squad successfully crossed the river and approached the Russian positions from the flank. They threw grenades and then cleared the trenches with bayonets. The battle descended into the most brutal close-quarters combat.

Matsumoto saw Muto wrestling with a tall Russian soldier. The two rolled around in the mud, and finally Muto plunged a dagger into the soldier's throat.

"He survived," Schmidt said. "He was lucky."

The battle ended half an hour later. The Japanese army captured the outpost, but at a heavy cost—of the reinforced company of 250 men, less than 100 were still standing. Corpses floated on the river, turning the water pink.

Matsumoto left the observation post and headed to the front lines. He was going to find Muto and give him the letter.

The occupied Russian positions were in complete disarray. The trenches were littered with corpses—Russian and Japanese—intertwined and indistinguishable from one another. Survivors were cleaning up the battlefield, collecting weapons, and carrying the wounded.

Matsumoto found Shinichi Muto deep in the trenches. The young man was sitting against a collapsed section of the breastwork, his face covered in blood and dirt, staring blankly at the sky. His left hand was simply bandaged and was still bleeding.

"Shinichi Muto?" Matsumoto asked.

Muto slowly turned his head, looking at him blankly: "You are...?"

"Koji Matsumoto, training camp instructor. Your brother asked me to deliver a letter to you."

Upon hearing the word "brother," Muto's eyes lit up. He struggled to his feet: "My brother? Where is he? How is he?"

"He's in Nagasaki, serving in the Navy, and everything's fine." Matsumoto took the letter out of his pocket and handed it over.

With trembling hands, Muto took the letter and eagerly opened it. The letter was short, and he read it quickly, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"What did he say?" Matsumoto asked.

"Let me go back alive." Muto smiled bitterly. "He said, don't try to be a hero, don't try to be a Banzai. Going back alive is more important than anything else."

He carefully folded the letter and put it in his pocket: "But my brother doesn't understand. Here, it's not a matter of whether you want to be a hero or not. Many times, you don't have a choice."

Matsumoto understood that feeling. In Augustov, Sergeant Yamada didn't want to die, Oshima didn't want to die, but they both died. That's how war is; it devours everything, whether you want it or not.

"You're injured." Matsumoto looked at his bleeding left hand.

"It was a bayonet cut, not serious," Muto said, "but my squad... of sixteen men, now only five are left."

He pointed to the side. Four soldiers sat there, some smoking, some staring blankly, all covered in blood and exhausted.