pappabearbooks Chapter 277 The 11th Army's Night Counterattack, the Defeated Jiamu Regiment
Chapter 277 The 11th Army's Night Counterattack, the Defeated Jiamu Regiment
At this moment, the Japanese regimental camp was completely covered by artillery fire. Shells rained down like raindrops, and explosions rose and fell incessantly, with almost no breaks in between.
The Japanese soldiers, who had been relaxed and chatting, were now completely thrown into disarray.
Some were hit directly by shells and disappeared in the flames without even having time to scream; some had half their bodies torn off by shrapnel and lay convulsing in pools of blood; others lay on the ground, clutching their heads, their bodies trembling like leaves in the wind.
Meanwhile, in the woods on both sides of the camp, the assault troops led by Zhu Chi and Gao Zhisong had begun their advance.
Their figures appeared and disappeared in the darkness, like a group of silent cheetahs, taking advantage of the cover of artillery fire to shorten the distance between themselves and the Japanese camp as much as possible.
Their objective was clear—to charge in before the Japanese army could organize an effective defense and completely shatter their formation.
The sounds of exploding shells, shouts of soldiers, and screams of the wounded mingled together, echoing through the night sky.
Standing in the dilapidated command post, looking at the hellish scene before him, only one thought remained in his mind: he had been tricked.
The routed soldiers fleeing in disarray during the day, the rusty old guns, the defenses that crumbled at the slightest touch—it was all a lie.
The night was deep, and the gunshots were as frequent as popping beans. The firelight flickered in the darkness, like a swarm of frantic fireflies dancing.
The soldiers of the 11th Army who raided the Japanese camp were no longer carrying the same rusty old relics they had during the day.
The Type 38 rifle, the Type 91 light machine gun, and the MP38 submachine gun, MG34 and MG42 machine guns, which the Japanese army had never seen before, as well as the PPSh submachine gun—these weapons gleamed coldly in the moonlight, like beasts that had just awakened, eager to pounce on their prey.
Where did these weapons come from? This question flashed through the minds of the Japanese soldiers, but there was no time to find the answer.
The soldiers of the 11th Army pulled the triggers, and submachine guns and machine guns roared at the same time, with bullets from magazines and belts pouring out like a flood breaking through a dam.
The PPSh submachine gun's disc-shaped drum magazine became a magic weapon for maintaining firepower at this moment.
The muzzle flashes from the guns stretched out in a continuous line, roaring and howling like venomous fangs devouring life, tearing the bodies of the Japanese soldiers apart piece by piece.
The MG42 machine gun, in particular, has a terrifying rate of fire that sends chills down your spine.
The sound it made wasn't like a gunshot, but rather like someone rapidly tearing a huge piece of cloth—a continuous, ripping sound.
The bullets flew in such a dense, spiderweb-like pattern, crisscrossing forward and covering the sky.
Any Japanese soldiers within the range of the firepower were either torn apart by bullets and fell limply to the ground, or pinned down so tightly that they couldn't even lift their heads.
Someone tried to retaliate, but as soon as he leaned out, he was hit by several bullets at the same time. It was as if an invisible hand had pushed him hard, and he fell backward.
Everything has changed.
Those rabble who were easily defeated and looked down upon during the day now seemed like a completely different group, launching such a swift and brutal counterattack.
The contrast was so great that many Japanese soldiers couldn't react at all.
One moment they were laughing and joking around the campfire, thinking they could brag about this battle for the rest of their lives; the next they were being chased away in panic, unable to even find their guns.
Despair began to spread among the Japanese troops, infecting everyone as quickly as a plague.
Someone let out a heart-wrenching scream, the sound echoing in the night sky, sending chills down one's spine.
Some people threw down their weapons, turned around and fled, wishing they had two more legs.
Some people gritted their teeth and tried to resist, kneeling on the ground and firing wildly, but they were hit by flying bullets after only a few shots, their bodies stiffened, and then they crashed to the ground like a bag of flour.
Kagimoto brandished his katana, the blade flashing in the firelight like frost on an autumn night.
He shouted at the top of his lungs, trying to stop the fleeing soldiers and get them to reorganize their defenses.
But it was useless; it was completely ineffective.
As the soldiers ran past him, their eyes were vacant and their faces were filled with fear, as if they couldn't see their commander at all.
Jambensen knew that it wasn't that these soldiers had lost the courage to resist, but rather that the enemy's firepower was simply too fierce—and it was attacking from two directions simultaneously, like a giant pair of pliers slowly closing in.
This would be fatal for any military unit.
The regimental staff officer, his face covered in blood, scrambled over.
His military cap was nowhere to be found, his hair was stuck together in clumps with blood, and the expression on his face was almost distorted.
"Report, Colonel, retreat!" His voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible. "Enemy personnel have been spotted in our rear. If we don't retreat soon, we may be completely surrounded!"
Upon hearing this, Kamukmoto stood there dumbfounded, his expression one of utter astonishment.
He slowly turned around and looked at the battlefield in front of him, which was shrouded in bullets and explosions—fire, smoke, screams, and blood, all mixed together, like a painting brought out of hell.
He suddenly burst into laughter, first in a low voice, then growing louder and louder until he bent over, laughing until tears streamed down his face.
The laughter sounded particularly jarring and desolate amidst the gunfire.
He was laughing at himself.
He mocked himself for never taking the enemy seriously from beginning to end, for feeling confident of victory during the day, and for already planning how to claim credit and rewards upon returning home.
And now? He has paid a heavy price for this arrogance and contempt.
How many brothers in the regiment lost their lives at this cost? He didn't know, and dared not think about it.
"Retreat!!" Kamimonsen finally roared, the sound seeming to be squeezed from the deepest part of his chest, filled with resentment, anger, and deep helplessness.
As if he had made up his mind, he gritted his teeth, brandished his samurai sword, and led the remaining Japanese soldiers in a breakout to the rear.
Upon hearing the order, the soldiers reacted as if they were drowning men grasping at a piece of driftwood, desperately following him as he ran backward.
But how many could escape? Jamomoto dared not think about it.
All he knew was that if he didn't run, everyone would die here tonight.
Meanwhile, in the forward command post of the 11th Army, Xiao Shanling was anxiously awaiting news from the front.