Chapter 39: Refusal of Rashness

As Lynn's gaze returned to the battlefield, the Soviet offensive crashed against the German defenses like waves against a breakwater. Despite its ferocity and dominance, in the face of the enemy's relentless resistance, the Soviet advance either ended in shattered bodies or reluctant retreat.

After more than twenty minutes of intense fighting, the wreckage of Soviet tanks littered the riverbed and both banks, numbering no less than thirty. The infantry, mowed down by German gunfire, created a scene of carnage with bodies strewn everywhere. Recognizing that the surviving few T-34 tanks were insufficient to breach the German lines, and that infantry assaults only added to casualties in the face of enemy machine guns, the Soviet soldiers, with tacit approval from their officers, ceased their reckless charges across the river. Instead, they attempted to engage the Germans from the riverbank, only to be met with pre-prepared defenses. German soldiers behind the trenches unleashed mortar fire, while MG-42s mounted on tripods sprayed forth a deadly "metal storm." After a mere two to three minutes, under cover of the remaining tanks, the Soviet infantry finally retreated.

Despite suffering heavy casualties, the Soviet retreat was slow and orderly. As the distance between the two sides widened, the number of Soviet soldiers killed by German firepower dwindled rapidly. With the cessation of gunfire, a momentary silence engulfed the German positions. Then, from the trenches, shouts of jubilation erupted swiftly.

War, like sports, does not guarantee victory solely based on strength, but maintaining high morale can positively influence the outcome.

Although his mind remained clear, Lynn's limbs felt as though he had slept on a hard floor for a week, joints tingling with numbness, and his body drained of strength. Leaning his rifle against the parapet, he settled on the opposite side, loosening the strap of his helmet with his right hand. His left hand trembled as he extracted a cigarette from its pack, shaking it to dislodge loose tobacco. Two cigarettes fell out, and he replaced one before placing the other between his lips. As he fumbled for matches in his pocket, a sudden "whoosh" made him flinch, and his helmet clattered to the ground.

The unexpected cold barrel startled Lynn, prompting him to reflexively curl into the bottom of the foxhole, oblivious to the fallen cigarette. What wounded him more than the bullet hitting his helmet was the momentary panic and despair it induced, almost causing him to lose control—a blow to his pride, as he doubted his courage to endure such humiliation.

A gunshot from above followed shortly, and Lynn, drawing from his accumulated battlefield experience, deduced it to be from a nearby location. He immediately thought of the German sniper on the rooftop, equipped with professional camouflage and optics, fully capable of eliminating enemy riflemen.

Regardless of whether the recent threat came from an ordinary Soviet infantryman or a skilled sniper, Lynn first reflected on his own actions. Though the enemy had retreated, those lying prone were not necessarily dead bodies. If he, a novice, could hit prone targets from three hundred meters away, Soviet soldiers could easily pick him off. The shallowness of the foxhole exposed his head, especially without a helmet. Lynn realized he had been lucky not to be hit yet.

After the gunshot, there was no more shooting from the rooftop, leaving Lynn unable to ascertain if the elusive Soviet marksman had been neutralized. Even if he could confirm, he dared not speak aloud to avoid revealing his position, and confirming a target's demise on the battlefield was not easy.

Soon, voices emerged from the trench ahead, including "Butcher's." Though Lynn couldn't understand the subsequent question, he could guess it pertained to his well-being. He hurriedly retrieved his dictionary from his bag to find the German equivalent of "fine" and phonetically replied to "Butcher." If anyone from the villa saw Lynn's actions, their thoughts would remain unknown.

With the recent close call, German soldiers hesitated to leave their cover during the lull in battle. They could still move within the trench to transport wounded and resupply ammunition, but Lynn, as a "lone soldier," couldn't. While the sky remained dim, Lynn pulled out his "German Daily Conversations" and parroted, "Sergeant, how are you?"

"I'm fine too!" replied "Butcher," but Lynn couldn't understand his following words. Without any knowledge of German, attempting to decipher the words in the dictionary felt futile. Lynn gave up the attempt and quickly stowed both "books" back into his bag. Anticipating another wave of Soviet attack might begin soon, he meticulously checked his rifle, loaded five bullets into the magazine, and retrieved the shotgun that had nearly gotten him into trouble earlier. He felt the need to restrain and correct his rash behavior.

To avoid fumbling at a critical moment, Lynn pulled back the shotgun's bolt and discovered the chamber and magazine were empty. Puzzled, he pondered: when "Butcher" disassembled the shotgun to hand its parts to the "old gunsmith," there were definitely no bullets in the chamber. Yet, when the "old gunsmith" repaired the firing pin and returned the assembled gun, not only was the safety off, but there were also bullets in the chamber—could it be that to ensure the firing pin functioned properly, he had test-fired the gun in advance, unintentionally leaving it in a ready-to-fire state?

Despite the suspicion of being scapegoated, Lynn hadn't faced any actual consequences. Consequently, he wasn't so urgently driven to uncover the truth. Moreover, considering the recent Soviet artillery bombardment on the town, the technical personnel responsible for repairing firearms and equipment might have already evacuated to a relatively safer rear area. In the vast sea of people, whether they would meet again was uncertain.

Fortunately, "Butcher" had provided plenty of bullets earlier. Lynn retrieved six rounds from his pocket and loaded them into the magazine, then cautiously chambered a round, ensuring the safety was on and memorizing the sequence of disengaging the safety and pulling the trigger. With everything ready, he fumbled to pick up a half-wet cigarette from the ground, pressed his head and body tightly against the southern edge of the foxhole, struck a match from his pocket, and lit the cigarette. Just as he took a drag, enemy shells whistled overhead once more...

"Damn it, can't we catch a break?!"

Lynn angrily spat out two sentences in standard Chinese, but the continuous explosions drowned out his shouts entirely. Even if other German soldiers heard, they would likely think he was just venting his frustration. As for what language he spoke or the content of his words, who had the time to pay attention?

Having discarded his helmet, Lynn could only curl up in the corner of the foxhole, hands tightly clutching his head. Surprisingly, the cigarette still dangled from his mouth, and he took a drag every few seconds. The excruciating pain he endured seemed to lessen slightly, and even his eardrums, usually tormented by the blasts, managed to hold up. After finishing one cigarette, the Soviet artillery bombardment hadn't ceased yet. Lynn simply reached for another one from his pocket. Lighting a match now was as difficult as cutting nails while riding pillion on a motorcycle—at least that's how Lynn compared it. Thankfully, after several attempts, two matches finally ignited the cigarette. With the battlefield shrouded in smoke, neither side would notice the faint smoke rising from this small foxhole.

Just as Lynn was about to light his third cigarette, the Soviet artillery barrage had significantly dwindled. He calmly patted both ears with his hands, alleviating the ringing in his ears somewhat. He then pulled a boat-shaped cloth cap from his bag, placed it on his head, retrieved three rows of bullets from his pocket, positioning them within easy reach. Only then did he pick up his rifle, brushing off mud from the barrel and bolt with his sleeve. Leaning forward, he supported his left knee, pressed his left shoulder against the foxhole wall, and stood with the rifle slanted in his hands. He waited for the sound of gunfire from the battlefield, ready to aim and shoot as quickly as possible.