Chapter 54: Death Charge (Part Two)

...Eliminating a Japanese soldier with a single shot exists only in those exaggerated war dramas.

On a real battlefield, far too many factors affect accuracy. No matter how formidable a sharpshooter claims to be during regular training, managing to perform at even half their usual level in combat is already quite impressive.

The idea of a hundred percent hit rate on the battlefield is utter nonsense.

Old man Zhang Taofang from the Korean War—many people are familiar with him, right?

It is not as if I do not know him; in fact, I am quite familiar with him. Over the course of thirty-two days, he expended four hundred and thirty-six rounds and only eliminated two hundred and fourteen enemies.

A real battlefield is nowhere near as simple as literature and short videos make it out to be...

...Excerpt from Hu Biao's diary collection, *Hu's Nonsense*...

Ultimately, when Wu Yenian was only three or four meters away from the AT soldier, the young white-collar worker finally pulled the trigger.

With a crisp gunshot, a 7.92mm round-nosed bullet struck Wu Yenian squarely in the chest. The greater stopping power of the round-nosed bullet compared to a spitzer bullet forced the young soldier back a step on the spot.

Perhaps the excruciating pain from the gunshot finally brought him back to his senses.

Yet by then, it was already far too late. With a look of disbelief, he glanced first at the wound on his chest and then at the AT squad leader before him.

He then collapsed like a pile of mud, the life rapidly fading from his eyes. Nevertheless, in the very last second before his breath expired entirely, his lips were still calling out, "Mom," "Mom."

"Keep charging, all of you! Whoever dares to run away, I'll finish him off!"

Raising his sleeve to wipe his eye sockets, the man who had been an unemployed white-collar worker just a few days ago shouted murderously toward the front.

Having shouted that, remembering the damn execution squad mission Hu Biao had assigned him, he yelled forward with even greater force:

"Hu Biao, you bastard, making me do this! Your future son won't even have an asshole, you damn prick!"

With a sharp *click*, Hu Biao, who had been leading the charge at the very front, attached a not-so-bright bayonet to the Hanyang rifle he was holding.

A bayonet that was too sharp was actually counterproductive because it would penetrate the Japanese soldier's body too deeply and become difficult to pull out—this little trick was something he had read about in an online novel.

During this process, he completely failed to hear the white-collar worker's affectionate regards concerning whether his future son would possess an anus or not.

In truth, even if he had heard it, he would not have cared.

Because he needed to survive; only by surviving continuously could the prospect of having a son even be on the table, and that goal was likely to be immensely difficult.

Right now, as he was less than a hundred meters away from the Dunwu Temple position, the artillery fire around him grew even more intense, and some of the Japanese soldiers finally began to react.

These Japanese soldiers were fierce indeed. Enduring the devastation of the artillery fire around them, they hurriedly set up various weapons and prepared to open fire.

One could say that in this desperate charge by the Third Company, all the previous events were merely appetizers; the main course was only just beginning.

Under these circumstances, far from caring about the insults directed at his future son's anatomy, even if someone were to plug his own anatomy with cement right now, he would not be bothered to argue...

***

When Hu Biao, leading the charge, reached a distance of about eighty meters from the Dunwu Temple position:

To the front-right at the three o'clock position, a Japanese Type 92 heavy machine gun team ignored the ongoing artillery bombardment and opened fire on the frantically advancing opponents with loud, rhythmic bursts.

The hastily fired bullets whined through the air, miraculously failing to hit anyone for the moment.

Yet it made the current environment increasingly perilous for everyone in the Third Company; furthermore, as more Japanese soldiers joined in, it was only a matter of time before someone was struck.

Faced with this situation, Hu Biao, Heixing, Chaozi, Huang Ahdi, and the others, sprinting full speed ahead, shouted in unison:

"Charge! Keep charging! Close the distance before opening fire!"

There was no choice! The artillery fire—which had already blown up God knows how many of their own men—might stop at any moment.

Once the Japanese soldiers opened fire at full capacity, in terms of sheer firepower density, could their Third Company, even after being reinforced once, truly surpass a Japanese battalion?

The only option was to press forward while the artillery fire had yet to cease and most of the Japanese had not reacted, paying whatever price was necessary to close the distance as much as possible.

Besides, they had made relevant preparations for this exact scenario, which should prove somewhat effective.

That was Uncle Bo leading the sniper squad; this was the critical moment for them to step up and provide sniper support.

To snipe opponents under a barrage of artillery fire, knowing you might be blasted into the sky the very next second—just thinking about that agonizing sensation made Uncle Bo want to curse.

Yet he knew that even if he were to be blown to pieces the next second, he still had to do it.

Pulling up short in a flurry of motion, Uncle Bo dropped into a standard shooting kneeling posture.

Hu Biao had not misjudged Uncle Bo. This middle-aged man, who claimed to be currently residing in North America in the modern era, had indeed concealed certain details about his background.

The reason, once stated, was entirely understandable: he was a regular soldier in Uncle Sam's army.

To be more precise, he was a native of Guangzhou who, after graduating from university, had immigrated with his entire family to Uncle Sam's country.

Over there, he first earned a Ph.D. in a STEM field and then, seeking stable benefits and ample vacation time, chose to become a minor logistics officer among the troops.

To put it bluntly, he treated it merely as a nine-to-five job.

However, while he was indeed a soldier, and many foreigners could be ruthless even to their own, Uncle Bo had never forgotten the blood flowing in his veins, and he felt an instinctive disgust toward the Japanese devils who had once inflicted such immense humiliation upon his nation.

Having transmigrated here with no other choice, he was fully prepared to fight the Japanese to the bitter end.

Yet given the reality of fierce competition between the two nations in the modern era, revealing his identity as an American soldier would be somewhat awkward.

Fearing that speaking out would provoke unnecessary trouble, he had chosen to keep it a secret from everyone.

Fortunately, even with this concealment, it did not affect Uncle Bo's determination to fight the Japanese.

Now was the time for him to showcase the polished marksmanship he had honed after expending countless rounds of ammunition in his spare time.

If he had any regrets at all,

it was that over the past two or three years, he had not handled this kind of old-fashioned bolt-action rifle, leaving him feeling considerable pressure regarding the task resting upon his shoulders.

As he hastily dropped into a kneeling position, sliding his knee across the ground, Uncle Bo entered the aiming phase.

Raising both arms, he pressed the buttstock firmly against his right shoulder and tilted his head slightly to the right. Using his right eye and a three-point sighting alignment, he locked the primary gunner of the firing Type 92 heavy machine gun into the rifle's iron sights.

Then, two crisp cracks rang out in rapid succession.

The first crack was the sound of Uncle Bo pulling the trigger. After dispatching a 7.92mm round, he hit absolutely nothing.

Consequently, the second crack rang out.

That was the sound of Uncle Bo dealing himself a vicious, extremely forceful backhand slap across the face, swelling one side of his cheek instantly.

He did this because Uncle Bo knew that even though he had not touched a bolt-action rifle in recent years,

given that he had brushed up on it temporarily over the past two days, his marksmanship under normal circumstances should not result in missing a target within a hundred meters by such a wide margin.

The fundamental reason was that his current emotional state was excessively tense, causing the hands holding the rifle to tremble. It would have been a miracle if he had managed to hit the target.

Thus, he resorted to slapping himself across the face to snap himself out of it.

Otherwise? The primary gunner of the enemy Type 92 heavy machine gun was clearly an elite; after a very brief sighting period, he had quickly dialed in his accuracy.

A burst of machine-gun fire swept across their position. Had Hu Biao not made a pre-emptive judgment,

rolling onto the ground to dodge just in time, the commander of the Third Company would have already been measured for a coffin.

Although Hu Biao reacted promptly, a member of the assault squad slightly behind him was not so fortunate. Several blood splatters burst instantly from his chest, and he was cut down without uttering a sound.

Although that fierce slap left Uncle Bo tasting blood in his mouth, it miraculously calmed him down.

With his left hand steadying the rifle and his right hand frantically working the bolt to chamber another round, he took at most one second to reacquire his aim and pulled the trigger once again.

As his right shoulder distinctly felt the powerful recoil of the vintage rifle firing,

this professional soldier watched with immense satisfaction as the primary gunner of the Type 92 heavy machine gun jerked his head back and collapsed backward, as if he had been struck in the face with a sledgehammer.

It turned out that this method of slapping oneself into a calm state was actually quite effective—it was just a bit hard on the face...