Chapter 12: When the Machine Gun Fired...

When the red icon appeared on Morin’s map, accompanied by a line of cold annotation, his heart seemed to skip a beat.

The worst fear had finally come true.

The Britannians had evidently supplied weapons to the Kingdom Army, who had deployed a machine gun nest in a village on the outskirts of Seville!

“Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat—!”

A sharp, piercing burst of gunfire tore through the battlefield like the roar of a deathly chainsaw.

Peering through the bushes, Morin witnessed a scene he would never forget.

The foremost skirmish line of the 1st Company, advancing ahead, was swept away as if by an invisible, colossal scythe.

From left to right, soldiers fell one after another, their fragile flesh and blood no different from stalks of wheat cut down by a sickle under a hailstorm of bullets.

The bullets traced lethal streaks through the ranks at a speed too swift for the naked eye.

In less than ten seconds, a single machine gun had completely erased an entire platoon from the 1st Company’s vanguard.

The once unstoppable gray assault line instantly shattered.

The surviving soldiers screamed in terror, flattened against the earth, frozen in place, heedless of the officers’ desperate shouts.

Yet the Vickers machine gun showed no sign of stopping.

The gunner calmly adjusted the muzzle, extending the deadly spray toward the second and third lines of the 1st Company’s skirmish formation.

Even the 2nd Company, still arranged in dense columns in the rear and not yet engaged, became its target.

In such concentrated formation, the machine gun’s lethality was mercilessly maximized.

Each bullet seemed to find its destined victim.

Captain Hauser, who had been brimming with confidence moments before, now stood rooted to the spot, his smile frozen into a pallid mask.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, yet no words came out.

Morin was not surprised by this reaction, for he understood that the Saxon Army of today was akin to the armies of Europe before the Great War.

They had yet to grasp the dreadful power of the machine gun, dismissing it as a cumbersome weapon suited only for defense.

That was also why the entire 33rd Infantry Regiment had but one machine gun company equipped with eight MG08 heavy machine guns, and it hadn’t even reached the front line...

The assault of the 1st Company was utterly broken.

The survivors clung to the ground, clutching their heads in terror, too afraid to move.

Anyone attempting to rise and fight back or retreat was immediately chased down by the fiery whip of bullets and reduced to a shredded corpse.

The 2nd Company following behind was thrown into chaos.

Officers blew their whistles frantically, trying to order the troops to scatter or lie down, but discipline was rapidly dissolving under the machine gun’s relentless barrage.

Originally maintaining tight formation, the 2nd Company compressed into a mass, unable to advance or retreat, becoming the perfect target for that single machine gun.

Bullets poured into the dense crowd like torrents of water, each sweep claiming several lives.

While others were stunned by the horrifying scene before them, Morin’s mind raced swiftly, his gaze locked onto the small map in the upper left corner.

In front of the red diamond icon representing the Vickers machine gun nest, a fan-shaped red area marking its firing arc covered the entire front of the assault.

The dog tags of the 1st and 2nd Companies lay squarely within this deadly sector.

Having pinpointed the approximate location, Morin pulled the binoculars issued to officers from his case and peered toward the map’s marked direction.

Sure enough, behind a window on the second floor of an unremarkable farmhouse, he caught the flicker of muzzle flashes.

Just as Morin was about to speak to Captain Hauser, he saw Major Thomas, the 1st Battalion commander, issuing orders to the runners at the forward temporary command post beyond the bushes.

Soon after, one of the runners mounted a horse and galloped toward the rear.

Morin guessed they were likely contacting the artillery positions to request continued fire support.

But even if all went well, the first shells wouldn’t fall for at least ten minutes.

That was more than enough time for the machine gun and other defenders to slaughter the exposed 1st and 2nd Companies on the open ground.

Yet Morin quickly realized he had no time to concern himself with others.

Another runner was now charging toward his own company.

“This is bad... they must be sending in the reserves...” Morin watched anxiously as the messenger approached, then dashed breathlessly to Captain Hauser.

“Captain! Major Thomas orders the 3rd Company to engage immediately, pressing the front!”

The faces of all the officers, Morin included, turned grim.

What the hell was the point of marching straight into the meat grinder?

Captain Hauser’s face flushed a deep purple as he grabbed the runner by the collar.

“Are you sure that’s the order? Has the major lost his mind? Didn’t you see what’s happening out there?”

“It’s... it’s exactly what the major said...” the runner stammered, on the verge of tears.

“Damn it!” Hauser cursed but then released him.

Military orders were law; he could not defy Major Thomas without facing court-martial and execution for cowardice.

He drew a deep breath and faced his troops.

His eyes swept over the nervous, fearful faces, finally resting on Morin and two other platoon leaders.

“You all heard the order!” Hauser’s voice grew heavy with resignation. “Prepare for battle! 3rd Platoon on the left, 1st Platoon center, 2nd Platoon right... Open skirmish lines! Alternate covering fire as you advance!”

After witnessing the massacre of dense formations firsthand, he had at least refrained from issuing the foolish command to charge in tight ranks.

But even so, Morin knew this was still suicide.

Until that machine gun nest was neutralized, any frontal assault was pointless, and who knew how many other hidden enemies lurked in the village?

Morin’s heart sank to the depths. He did not want to die here, and if death was to come, he would not give his life for a typical “imperialist” nation.

Moreover, he commanded eighty living souls. He could not lead them into a battle doomed to fail.

Yet the truth was, he had no choice.

His only hope was to attack in a different way—to strike at the machine gun nest that was relentlessly reaping his comrades’ lives.

Just as Captain Hauser was about to blow the whistle to signal the attack, Morin stepped forward abruptly.

“Sir!”

Hauser halted, turning to frown sharply at Morin.

“What is it, Lieutenant Morin? Are you planning to disobey orders?”

His tone was impatient, edged with a hint of threat. The recent disaster and the battalion’s desperate orders had frayed his nerves.

“No, sir!” Morin shook his head quickly, striving to sound as convincing as possible.

“I request to lead the 3rd Platoon in a flanking maneuver from the left!”

The surrounding officers and non-commissioned officers froze in surprise.

“Flank?” Hauser repeated, his gaze skeptical. “What exactly do you intend to do?”

“Sir, I spotted through my binoculars that the enemy’s machine gun nest is set up in a two-story farmhouse with a fixed firing arc,” Morin explained rapidly, pointing toward the left flank of the battlefield.

“There is a dry riverbed and several small thickets that could serve as natural cover. My platoon can use the terrain to move to the village’s side and launch an attack from there on the machine gun nest.”

“Even if we cannot destroy it immediately, attracting their attention alone could create an opening for the main assault.”

Hauser remained silent, staring intently at Morin, trying to discern whether this freshly graduated young lieutenant was dreaming impossibly.