章 3: Chapter 3: Ravages of War
"Racing drivers may not necessarily be able to handle a T-34, but a good T-34 driver can definitely become an excellent racing driver!"
This was Lynn's jest during his early days playing World of Tanks. He never expected that one day he would face such formidable steel beasts on a real battlefield. What's worse, he wasn't sitting in a Tiger or commanding a Panther; even a Panzer IV seemed like a luxury. In this dire battlefield, he was just an infantryman, armed with a Mauser rifle, carrying dozens of 7.92mm pointed bullets, and a bayonet in the scabbard attached to his belt.
The brutal battle in front of him raged on. Hand grenades rained down on the T-34s, and small arms fire desperately tried to pierce their armor. However, except for a couple of Panzerfausts and a few bundles of bundled hand grenades that proved effective, the rest of the firepower against the Soviet tanks was like scratching an itch through boots. Those white-painted behemoths ruthlessly crushed the first German trench, and less than 30 meters away was where Lynn found himself—the second trench!
Facing a tank, a regular rifle was no more than a stick to stir a fire. Lynn stood bewildered at his fighting position, neither retreating nor continuing to shoot. At this moment, his mind went blank. In games and novels, he had imagined countless ways to destroy enemy tanks, but when he found himself in the midst of it all, those "what ifs" became irrelevant!
Clang...
The explosion at extremely close range sounded different from when it was farther away. The heat wave arrived in an instant, and the tiny debris made the exposed skin sting. Suddenly, a T-34 about 20 meters to Lynn's front right turned into a fireball. The burning flames illuminated a large area, revealing the true details of a Soviet tank: the arrogantly protruding barrel, the integral turret, the wide, tall body, and the mudguards, tracks, and steel wheels.
A killing machine, the quality of craftsmanship didn't matter as long as it was solid enough; maneuverability was irrelevant as long as it ran fast, turned fast, and traveled far enough—that's enough!
The enemy in front was taken care of, yet Lynn felt no hint of joy. He saw another T-34 rushing forward under the fast-turning treads. The imposing momentum instilled fear in those standing on the opposite side of the battlefield. And when the machine gun muzzle on the front of the tank sprayed out orange tongues of fire, the unlucky ones who didn't want to die immediately finally ducked back into the trench, choosing to give up: being captured was better than enduring the battlefield, which was not something ordinary people could bear!
In the deafening roar, the first Soviet tank passed through this trench at a distance of less than 10 meters. Lynn sat weakly in the trench, turning his head to look at those who were also crouched at the bottom. There was a guy nearby, clutching his head with both hands, looking more scared than Lynn himself. Some were motionless, either dead or, like Lynn, chose to give up.
Just then, someone rushed past Lynn, as fast as a gust of wind. Lynn looked closely and realized it was "Butcher"!
"Butcher" had no time to scold his subordinates, his head lowered, his body bowed, his left hand holding a submachine gun, and his right hand gripping a Molotov cocktail. As another Soviet tank rolled over the trench, he suddenly slowed down, simultaneously straightening up, pausing for a moment as if weighing the perfect timing. In an instant, he vigorously threw the bottle at the rear of the Soviet tank. After completing this action, he bent down slightly, his eyes fixed firmly on the tank.
A few seconds later, a fireball rose from the rear of the Soviet tank, which was about to leave Lynn's sight. Compared to the explosion caused by a shell hitting, the fireball's burning momentum was much milder. Being knowledgeable about historical battle examples and enjoying WWII movies, Lynn knew that attacking a tank's rear engine vents with a Molotov cocktail was a relatively effective infantry anti-tank method, and if successful, it could cause the tank to stall. However, the chances of setting fire to a Soviet tank with a diesel engine were usually not very high.
After attacking one T-34, "Butcher" didn't intend to stop. He quickly ran north along the trench, picking up a parcel-like object from beside a body wearing a large-eared helmet. Then he lay at the edge of the trench, scanning the surroundings. After a moment, as if targeting a mouse, he crawled out with extremely quick and agile movements.
Lynn quickly turned his head, but he couldn't see "Butcher" anymore. Despite being kicked several times by this guy, he was still a comrade in the trench. Lips perish when teeth are cold. At this moment, a sense of unease crept into Lynn's heart.
Outside the trench, gunfire and explosions still raged fiercely, and flickering flames could be from hand grenades, shells, or incendiary bombs. After what seemed like two minutes, a deafening explosion suddenly came from the front of the trench, shaking Lynn's eardrums painfully. Soon after, someone crawled into the trench with their hands and feet, and Lynn saw that it was none other than "Butcher"!
Seeing "Butcher" gasping on the ground, Lynn could imagine the guy's heroic act just now. Apart from admiration and gratitude, he was also curious about what was going on in this guy's head: brutal treatment of subordinates, ruthless killing of enemies, and stepping forward at critical moments. Was this the realistic portrayal of the German fighting spirit?
Just as Lynn was filled with doubts, "Butcher" got up with nimble movements, brushed off the dirt, then turned around and gave a fierce look at the subordinates crouching or sitting in the bottom of the trench, waving his right hand angrily, shouting:
"Cowards! Cretins!"
Hearing the battle command, Lynn reflexively grabbed his rifle and stood up without much thought. He simply shouldered his rifle and stepped onto the firing step. In his sight, dozens of Soviet tanks that had forcefully crossed the first trench were now mostly reduced to scrap metal. Some were visibly deformed, likely blown up directly by anti-tank guns or rocket launchers; some had gaping hatches, with bodies distributed in various strange positions on the hull and beside the vehicle; others had turned into blazing bonfires, illuminating the remnants of snow on the muddy ground.
Moving his gaze forward, Lynn was even more astonished: the area around the first trench was filled with bodies. Before the Soviet tanks entered the position, there were only craters and mud stains! Under the firelight, he could vaguely discern that most of these bodies wore Soviet helmets and wore either brownish military uniforms or white capes, likely killed by machine gun fire. As for the fierce close combat, most of the heroes were already silent in the first trench!
Despite heavy casualties on both sides, the Soviet offensive continued. On the slope in front of the first trench, two or three dozen Soviet tanks were still rumbling forward. Exposed under the flare, their bodies were huge and cumbersome, with long gun barrels equipped with large muzzle brakes at the front. Bullets and shells hitting the front of the tanks did little to stop their advance, and each angry shot from the cannons echoed deafeningly. Shielded by these tanks, thousands of soldiers wearing the iconic 1940 Soviet helmets and light-colored cloaks, carrying rifles and submachine guns, charged forward with a resounding "Ura!"
This is called advancing one after another, facing death with courage!
Lincoln couldn't tell whether it was two hundred or three hundred meters away, and the sight on his rifle remained at the 500-meter mark. He pulled out the bullets he had saved from several battles in his pocket, filled the magazine, pulled the trigger, chambered the round, reset, pulled the trigger, and repeated continuously. He entrusted all his fears, regrets, and confusion to these bullets, firing them towards the enemy ahead...
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