In the dark and slippery communication trench, the soldiers of the Britannian Expeditionary Force continued their attack.
Taylor, who had already become the “point man,” felt as if the soles of his boots were stepping on a water-logged sponge. But looking down, it was a mangled corpse wearing a field-gray uniform—seemingly an unlucky guy tossed in during the previous artillery bombardment.
The young Britannian private felt his stomach churn, but he didn’t dare to stop.
The pushing force from behind and the hysterical urging of the officers forced him to keep moving forward.
“Quick! Don’t daze out! It’s just a Saxon barbarian, step over it!”
The sergeant behind him jabbed Taylor hard in the lower back with his rifle butt.
Taylor gritted his teeth, braced himself, and trudged unevenly into the maze-like depths.
And ahead was another right-angle turn.
Judging from the battle that had just occurred, this kind of right-angle turn was the defenders’ favorite ambush point.
Usually, there would be at least two or three soldiers waiting with rifles raised, or a set-up machine gun.
Taylor took a deep breath, his finger tightening on the trigger of his Lee-Enfield rifle, ready to fire a shot and then engage in bayonet combat.
However, when he turned the corner, he didn’t see the Saxon barbarians charging up with fixed bayonets as he expected.
At the end of that narrow straight section less than ten meters long, which was the next corner, no one showed their head.
Instead, two dark, short muzzles extended out along the edge of the mud wall.
The bodies of the Saxon soldiers holding the guns were completely hidden behind the dirt wall of the corner, revealing only two hands and those extremely ugly-looking barrels.
“What kind of fighting style is this?!”
Taylor’s brain instantly crashed.
No need to aim?
At this distance, how can you hit someone without showing your head?
Almost subconsciously, and out of survival instinct, Taylor raised his muzzle, trying to shoot those two exposed wrists.
But he was too slow.
Or rather, a bolt-action rifle simply couldn’t compare in rate of fire when facing fully automatic weapons at this distance—even the “Old Lee,” which boasted a higher rate of fire among bolt-action rifles, was the same.
“Da-da-da-da—!!!”
A burst of rapid but rhythmic firing echoed in the communication trench. The orange muzzle flashes appeared exceptionally dazzling in the dim trench.
Taylor couldn’t even react. He only felt his chest being smashed fiercely by several invisible burly men with iron hammers simultaneously.
That immense impact force made his whole body fall backward, not even having time to let out a scream.
Although the 9mm pistol cartridge’s penetration was inferior to a full-power rifle cartridge, at this point-blank distance of a dozen meters, its damage against unarmored targets was still considerable.
What’s more, this was a submachine gun.
Four or five bullets instantly drilled into Taylor’s chest cavity, tumbling, tearing, churning his heart and lungs into a bloody pulp.
The 20-year-old Taylor, a farm boy from Yorkshire, this young man who planned to go to the Glasgow shipyard as an apprentice before the war and dreamed of saving money to marry a good wife, just fell backward into the mud with his eyes wide open.
And this “trench-clearing operation” had just begun.
Behind the fallen Taylor, those densely packed Britannian soldiers simply had nowhere to run.
Those two MP14 submachine guns were like scythes harvesting leeks, frantically reaping all life in the narrow passage.
The “thwack-thwack” sound of bullets hitting human bodies mixed with the screams of the Britannian soldiers, echoing in the trench.
It was like knocking down the first domino.
The people in the front row fell, the people in the back row tripped over the corpses, and then were similarly covered by the rain of bullets.
Soon, the two submachine guns each emptied a 32-round magazine.
But this was not the end. The owners of the two submachine guns quickly swapped in new magazines and then continued to sweep their guns, strafing into the communication trench.
At the same time, several black lumps with wooden handles flew in a parabolic arc, landing precisely between the pile of corpses and the living.
“Grenades!!!”
Someone roared in despair.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!”
The blast waves generated by fierce explosions in an enclosed space were simply devastating.
Severed limbs were blown into the sky, and dirt and flesh pasted the trench walls on both sides.
Before the gunpowder smoke could disperse, several instruction unit soldiers wearing the new type of ear-protecting steel helmets with drooping brims and canvas chest rigs over their field-gray uniforms had already charged over, stepping on the still-twitching corpses.
The muzzles of their MP14 submachine guns were still emitting green smoke, their movements frighteningly efficient—finish off survivors, search, advance, without any superfluous nonsense.
The last thing Taylor saw was a mud-caked military boot stepping heavily on his face, and then continuing to advance toward the next section of the trench.
This tactic of “submachine guns opening the way + grenades clearing the field” exerted more than 100% effectiveness in narrow trenches.
The 1st and 2nd Battalions of the instruction unit didn’t try to hold a specific defense line like traditional infantry. Instead, they broke up into parts, utilizing this asymmetrical firepower advantage to reversely infiltrate those communication trenches occupied by the Britannians.
Whenever they encountered a corner, they would first suppress it with a burst of blind fire, followed closely by sending over a few grenades.
The numerical advantage of the Britannian Expeditionary Force instead became a burden in these ravines that could only accommodate two people walking side by side.
The people in front died, their bodies blocking the way; the people behind wanted to charge but were blocked outside the field of fire, anxious and helpless.
In just half an hour, on the battle line responsible by the instruction unit, the defense zones originally broken through by the Britannians began to be “cleaned” up bit by bit.
At the same time, a vehicle driving from the First Army Group Headquarters also stopped at the entrance of the third defense line.
Morin, “released after serving his sentence,” jumped anxiously out of the car. Without even having time to greet anyone, he dashed toward the defense line.
Some scenes that had just happened kept flashing through his mind…
Just before he was released from confinement and planned to leave the Army Group Headquarters, an officer wearing the badge of the Army Review Department was still sputtering as he yelled at General Mackensen: “Your Excellency General! This is a serious violation! Lieutenant Colonel Morin is under suspension and review, you cannot…”
“I cannot?”
General Mackensen’s eagle-like eyes narrowed slightly. He took a step forward, and the murderous aura of a former Hussar rolling out from mountains of corpses and seas of blood forced that Review Officer to subconsciously step back twice.
“Listen, you rat who only knows how to hide in an office gnawing on documents.”
Mackensen pointed to the blazing front line in the distance, his voice terrifyingly low: “The Saxon boys ahead are bleeding! The Britannians’ bayonets are already pointed at my nose!”
“And Lieutenant Colonel Morin and his instruction unit are the core of the attack for this operation!”
The Review Officer wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, still wanting to argue: “But the rules…”
“To hell with the rules!”
The old general violently drew the pistol from his waist, but the muzzle wasn’t aimed at the Review Officer. Instead, he reversed it and shoved the grip fiercely into the other’s chest.
“Since you talk so much about rules, fine, I now appoint you as the temporary commander of the frontline assault team.”
Mackensen was too lazy to reason with the other party at this moment. If it weren’t for their status as Review Officers, anyone else would have been shot by him long ago.
“Take this gun and take back the first line of defense for me! If you can do it, I’ll put Lieutenant Colonel Morin in solitary confinement until the end of the war! Go!”
The Review Officer held the heavy Luger pistol, his hands shaking like a sieve.
As “civilian” personnel, they indeed didn’t have the guts to go to the trenches and risk their lives.
“Don’t dare to go?”
Mackensen snatched the pistol back, shoved it into the holster, and snorted contemptuously: “If you don’t dare to go, then shut your mouth! Roll back to your tent and don’t get in my way of fighting a war!”
And Morin just got into the already prepared vehicle and headed straight for the defense line.
When Morin arrived at the entrance bunker of the third defense line, a large number of soldiers around were nervously mobilizing, and the sound of firing artillery groups constantly came from the distance.
But what surprised him was that there were actually four people waiting for him at the entrance of the defense line.
They were the four soldiers of the General’s Guard assigned to him by the General Staff. These burly men, nearly two meters tall and wearing full plate armor, were guarding a pile of equipment like four iron towers at this moment.
Seeing Morin approaching, the leading guard immediately stood at attention. The expression on the face hidden behind the visor couldn’t be seen, but the voice remained muffled and powerful.
“Lieutenant Colonel, this is your equipment.”
Morin looked at the things placed on the ammunition box with some surprise—it was his full set of combat gear in the instruction unit.
A gray chest rig, MP14 magazines fully loaded with bullets in the pouches, that new steel helmet preferentially issued to the instruction unit, and a small leather backpack used to carry the “Portable Magitech Communication Device.”
The most conspicuous thing was the double-barreled shotgun placed on the very top. This was the gift Cecilia gave him, an expensive and deadly work of art.
“How did you get it?” Morin asked as he slipped the chest rig on.
“When the artillery bombardment began, I took the liberty to go find Captain Manstein.”
The leading “Plate Armor Superman” answered in a muffled voice, not a trace of fluctuation in his tone: “I knew you would definitely come back to command the battle. This unit cannot do without you, so we waited here for you with the equipment.”
Morin’s hand fastening the buckle paused for a moment.
He didn’t expect these General’s Guard soldiers, who were usually as quiet as sealed gourds, to actually have such clear minds at times.
He didn’t say any more sentimental words, just quickly put on the equipment.
The heavy ammunition load added to his body made him find a sense of security.
The MP14 submachine gun was temporarily hung under his armpit by his waist via a sling, while his main weapon in hand was the gold-plated double-barreled shotgun Cecilia gave him.
The chest rig on his body also had some minor adjustments. Besides the pouches for submachine gun magazines, two leather shotgun bandoliers were also fixed on.
Each bandolier could hold 10 rounds of 12-gauge shotgun shells, totaling 20 rounds. Half were slugs used for hunting bears and wild boars, and the other half were buckshot containing multiple lead pellets.
“Click.”
The break-action barrel was opened.
Morin pulled out two rounds of buckshot from the chest rig. The thick shells were pushed into the chambers by him, and the barrel closed, emitting a crisp metallic locking sound.
Morin held the shotgun in his hand, his finger resting outside the trigger guard, his gaze sweeping over the four fully armed guards in front of him.
“Listen, we need to go support the troops right now, and the Britannians ahead have definitely blocked the communication trenches completely. If we go below, we will definitely be blocked too!”
As he spoke, Morin pointed to the No Man’s Land between the third parallel trench and the second parallel trench.
“We go over from the top and quickly enter combat.”
Morin naturally wasn’t being overconfident, but he looked at the situation on the system map and confirmed that this was indeed the fastest route, and the risk wasn’t as great as imagined.
Especially for himself and the four “Plate Armor Supermen.”
The four guards looked at each other, without any hesitation, simultaneously pulled down their visors, and raised their two-handed greatswords and modified heavy machine guns at the same time.
“We will accompany you, wherever you go.”
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