22: Chapter 22 I Saw the Face of the US Army

Under the ghastly pale light of the flare, the snow-covered ground was no longer white, but rather exhibited a sickly grayish-blue hue.

The world lost its sound.

Jack didn't know if it was because his eardrums had been ruptured by the nearby near-miss explosion, or if his adrenaline had surged past the critical point, causing his brain to actively suppress extraneous noise.

His field of vision narrowed drastically, like a dark tunnel, with only the silhouette of that American soldier, clad in a dark green military greatcoat and wearing a steel helmet, visible at the end.

Closer.

Fifty meters. Thirty meters. Ten meters.

Jack could clearly see the American's expression. It was a young face covered in freckles, his blue pupils contracting violently, his mouth agape in an exaggerated 'O' shape.

As if screaming, or perhaps pleading for help. The soldier's M1 Garand rifle was raised frantically, the muzzle trembling.

"Kill!"

This word wasn't shouted from the throat; it exploded from the deepest part of his lungs.

The two collided violently.

There was no martial arts technique, only the most primitive, brutal impact. The immense force made Jack feel as if he had slammed into a wall; his ribs let out a crisp snap.

But he didn't stop. Instinct drove him to thrust the bayonet-mounted type 38 rifle forward.

Shhhk.

A strange, grating sensation traveled up the rifle stock to his palm.

It was the feeling of metal slicing through heavy cotton padding, cutting through skin, and finally lodging between the ribs. Warm liquid instantly sprayed onto Jack's face, carrying a nauseating, rusty odor.

The American soldier's eyes bulged wide, and a gurgling, bubbly sound escaped his throat.

The Garand rifle dropped from his hands. Both hands fiercely gripped the fuller of the bayonet, trying desperately to pull it out.

Jack's mind went blank.

This was completely different from killing enemies in the shooting games he used to play. There was no experience bar popping up, no kill confirmation sound, no corpse dissolving into motes of light.

The opponent had warmth. His blood was scalding hot. The strength with which the man gripped him before death was terrifyingly strong.

"Let go... Damn you, let go!"

Jack roared hysterically, lifted his foot, and kicked viciously into the soldier's stomach, using the leverage to yank the bayonet free.

A jet of blood spurted out, and the limp body slid down into the mud at the bottom of the trench.

"Ugh—"

Jack collapsed onto the ground, his stomach convulsing violently. The dry fried noodles he had eaten earlier, mixed with stomach acid, were all vomited out.

"Stop spacing out! That's a dead man! The living are ahead!"

A large hand grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up from the ground. It was the squad leader. The veteran's face was covered in soot, only the whites of his eyes shone brightly.

He didn't spare the corpse a glance. He picked up the Garand rifle dropped by the American, expertly cycled the bolt to check it, and then shoved it into Jack's arms.

"This thing works better than your fire stick! Take it! Keep up!"

The battle was still raging.

The American defense line hadn't completely collapsed because of one charge.

The interlocking field of fire formed by the M2 heavy machine guns was like scythes of death, mowing down the Volunteer Army soldiers charging at the front, layer by layer.

Jack clutched the still-warm semi-automatic rifle and staggered along as he followed the squad leader through the trench.

At a corner, he tripped over something.

He looked down. It was the young American soldier he had just stabbed. The body lay askew in the muddy water, one side of his jacket pocket flipped open, revealing a brown leather wallet.

As if guided by a ghost, Jack picked up the wallet.

Inside was a black and white photograph. The picture showed a blonde, blue-eyed girl wearing the most fashionable bikini of the time, smiling brilliantly under the bright California sun.

On the back of the photo was a line of beautiful English handwriting:

*To my dearest Tony: Waiting for you to come home for Christmas. Love, Lucy.*

There was also a letter, written only halfway, one corner soaked through with blood: "Mom, the winter here is too cold. I miss the hot soup you make... Damn officers say we're going home, but I feel like we're getting farther and farther away..."

Jack's hands began to tremble violently.

This wasn't data. This wasn't an NPC that only refreshed paths.

This was a living person.

He was a young man who had a lover and missed his mother's hot soup.

Just two minutes ago, he had personally plunged his bayonet into his chest, destroying that California Christmas.

But! Why did you invade and tread upon our land!?

"Bang!"

A gunshot exploded right beside his ear.

A bullet struck the barricade, and the resulting fragments of stone scraped across Jack's cheek.

The machine gun nest ahead was still spitting fire, and three soldiers who tried to rush forward for demolition lay dead in pools of blood.

"I can't see over the top... There are too many of them..." Brother Bao was huddled in the corner of the trench, his submachine gun long since out of ammunition.

A piece of his glasses lens was shattered. The usual confidence he displayed when pontificating about the world was completely gone, and his voice carried a desperate, crying tone.

"Their suppressive fire is so heavy we can't even lift our heads... How are we supposed to fight this? This is sending us to die!"

The Americans seemed to have noticed the weakness in the Chinese soldiers' firepower, and their initially somewhat chaotic defensive line began to stabilize.

Several men who looked like officers waved pistols, directing a squad of soldiers armed with carbines to counterattack.

"Go! Go! Keep moving!"

Those arrogant shouts grew closer.

Jack looked at the bloodstained photograph in his hand, then at the fallen comrade beside him.

An extremely complex emotion churned in his chest.

It was the terror of killing, the powerlessness against a superior enemy, and the madness of a cornered beast driven to desperation.

"What are you afraid of!"

The old squad leader suddenly stood up.

He offered no rousing clichés. He simply flung his cap off, revealing his bald head.

He pulled out the only grenade he had from his waist, pulled the pin, but didn't throw it.

"Even if I'm just a piece of iron, I'll blast a hole in you!"

The squad leader roared, and instead of staying behind cover to shoot, he vaulted directly out of the trench.

He charged forward like an enraged wild boar, straight into the dense hail of American bullets.

"Squad leader!" Jack instinctively shouted.

In that moment, not just Jack, but everyone who was alive witnessed it.

That small, lightly clad figure seemed so fragile against the backdrop of heavily armed American soldiers.

But his posture of charging was so resolute, so utterly unreasonable.

The American soldiers who had been arrogantly counterattacking froze.

They had seen the madness of the Japanese Banzai charges, but they had never seen this... this look that suggested they were certain the enemy would be afraid.

It was the gaze of a hunter.

Even without guns, these men would bite your throat out with their teeth.

This psychological pressure even surpassed the advantage of their firearms.

Several of the leading American soldiers instinctively took a step back, and the tight formation showed a slight loosening.

"Boom!"

The grenade exploded in the cluster of American troops. The squad leader fell, but he had blasted open a gap.

"Charge!"

"Kill!"

Jack threw the wallet away.

Who cares if you're Tony or Jerry, who cares how many Lucys are waiting for you.

Since you are standing on this land holding a gun, since your airplanes blew Second Girl to pieces, then you must die!

Jack raised the Garand rifle, ignoring any aiming principles, and frantically pulled the trigger toward the gap ahead.

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Ding—"

The eight rounds were emptied instantly, the magazine ejecting with a crisp sound.

Without reloading, he picked up an entrenching shovel from the ground and charged forward with a fierce yell, following the main group.

The Americans completely collapsed.

These soldiers, possessing the world's most powerful firepower, had their courage terrified out of them by these fearless 'ghosts'.

They abandoned their heavy machine guns, discarded the still-full ammunition boxes, turned around, and fled toward the rear where their tanks were.

...

The smoke of battle dispersed.

The fighting was over.

It was a Pyrrhic victory. Of the company that originally had over a hundred men, less than half could still stand.

The trench was piled high with supplies abandoned by the Americans.

There were crates of Spam canned luncheon meat, coffee that was still warm, cigarettes, chocolate, and even two bottles of whiskey.

For soldiers who had starved for three days, this was practically Ali Baba's treasure trove.

Brother Bao was sitting next to a box of cans, greedily devouring a piece of beef held in his hand, his face greasy.

Dai Dai was bandaging a wounded soldier; her hands were still shaking, but her eyes were firmer than before.

Jack leaned against the bullet-riddled tank track, holding an open can, but he couldn't bring himself to eat.

His vision was filled with the face of that young man named Tony. It was the first time he had truly stripped a fellow human being of their life.

[System Prompt: Combat settlement complete.]

[Kills: 3.]

[Achievement Unlocked: First Battle.]

[Negative Status Gained: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (Mild). Description: You are beginning to realize that the gun in your hand is not merely a tool for firing data. Every time you pull the trigger, you bear a sin. All attributes -5%.]

Jack looked at the status bar and managed a wry smile.

In the real world, at this very moment, someone might be furiously cursing the game designers on a forum over 'game balance'.

But this damned realism left him without the strength to even curse.

Su Yun, you madman. You aren't making a game; you are carving flesh from us with a knife.

"Assemble!"

The regiment commander's voice broke the brief silence.

He didn't allow them to rest, nor did he let them fully enjoy the spoils of war.

His face was ashen, and he held a map in his hand, pointing to a small, inconspicuous black dot on it.

"Stop eating."

The commander tossed the half-eaten can back into the box. His gaze swept over the group of battered survivors who hadn't even had time to catch their breath.

"Take whatever food you can carry. Pick up all the American guns and ammunition."

The commander's voice was heavy, as if weighed down by a massive stone.

"Ahead is Feihu Mountain."

He pointed to the peak shrouded in the southern night, its outline resembling a crouching tiger.

"Division command orders that we must nail ourselves there like a spike to block the main body of the American army advancing north."

Jack straightened up. He saw the commander's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

"I have bad news for everyone.", The commander paused for two seconds, his voice turning hoarse.

"Our supply line has been cut. Next, we will face the frenzied counterattack of an entire American division."

"That is a death trap."

"If you go, the probability of returning is very low."

No one spoke.

The cold wind swept across the devastated position, stirring up the snow powder on the ground.

Jack took out the photograph from the wallet and lit it with a match.

He watched the smiling face curl, blacken in the flames, and finally turn to ash scattering in the wind.

He tightened his grip on the bloodstained Garand rifle.

"Let's go."

He said.