Chapter 787: The Battle of Kharkov

Before the soldiers could even let out a cheer of victory, another Ukrainian T-26 tank was destroyed by a hidden anti-tank gun. And the twin-barreled self-propelled anti-aircraft gun, which had been so majestic just a moment ago, had also run over a mine while advancing and had its track blown off, paralyzed on the side of the road.

More Ukrainian soldiers crossed over this damaged vehicle and charged towards the building on the other side of the street. The enemy’s heavy machine gun began to roar, and one after another, the soldiers fell on the path of their advance. In the end, these advancing soldiers retreated to where they had started, hiding behind the paralyzed vehicle and continuing to return fire.

Soon, this paralyzed anti-aircraft gun once again showed its might. It turned its open-topped turret and aimed the muzzles of its cannons at the distant building. After a command was given, a dense hail of cannon shells flew towards the distant building, leaving a row of bowl-sized holes in the thick wall.

With this fierce fire, the Ukrainian soldiers once again launched a frantic attack. Braving the enemy’s artillery fire and bullets, they crossed the street as they had wished, charged into that building, and turned the dozen or so Soviet soldiers who were left after being slaughtered by the anti-aircraft gun into corpses lying on the ground.

War, for an artilleryman, is to load one shell after another into a cannon and then fire it at the enemy’s position. For them, killing is to constantly stuff a copper metal cylinder into a chimney-like object and then pull the firing mechanism. They cannot see how terrifying the shells they fire are, cannot see the mangled corpses, and cannot see the severed limbs flying in the sky.

If someone has been through a war, serving in a branch where they do not have to personally experience the flames of battle, that is definitely a blessing from God. After all, to have been through a war without having to experience the bloody brutality of that cruel slaughter is a very happy thing worth celebrating.

Modern warfare is becoming more and more like a video game. Soldiers can press a button to launch a missile and directly destroy a target hundreds of kilometers away. Taking an enemy’s head from a thousand miles away, a description that once only appeared in myths, has now become a common tactical means. But in early March of 1939, even with a transmigrator like Akado raising the technological level of warfare, soldiers still had to fight face to face.

Yes, face-to-face combat. Soldiers from both sides held their weapons, with sharp bayonets fixed, and used the most primitive of methods to decide the outcome of the war. In the streets and alleys of Kharkov, it seemed that the past civilization of humanity and high-end war technology were insulated from this place. The soldiers here were deciding who had the right to continue to survive according to a method that had been in use since the Middle Ages.

In a trench, a Soviet soldier held his Mosin-Nagant rifle, a gleaming bayonet on its tip. His expression was focused, his hands gripping the rifle impeccably, his eyes fixed on the enemy opposite him.

He could not afford to be careless, because the young Ukrainian opposite him was staring at him with a fierce gaze. This Ukrainian soldier held a Mauser 98k rifle level in his hands, a sharp blade also fixed to its muzzle.

On the Soviet soldier’s head was a fur-lined cap. He was wearing a light green, somewhat yellowish military greatcoat, with his belt fastened on the outside, looking very capable. And on the head of this Ukrainian soldier was a simplified M35 steel helmet. He was wearing a short, standard-issue German military uniform, and on his hands were his own private woolen gloves.

“Traitor!” the Soviet soldier suddenly roared, and then charged at his opponent with his bayonet. He used the simplest of bayonet fighting techniques, his upper body straight, a lunge forward, and a straight thrust with his rifle.

The cold, sharp bayonet came at the Ukrainian soldier. He parried the other’s bayonet with his own rifle, his body making a dodging motion at the same time. They closed in, sidestepped each other, and after each had made a half-circle, they were back in a standoff.

The Soviet soldier knew he did not have much time. Once the other Ukrainian soldiers in the trench had tied up the situation, and the second wave of enemy troops had charged in, he would have no way out but death, whether he surrendered or fled. And so he shouted again and thrust his bayonet at his enemy.

The young Ukrainian lad once again parried the other’s thrusting bayonet, then swung his rifle butt, striking his opponent on the shoulder. This blow was powerful and heavy, and it immediately sent the Soviet soldier stumbling a few steps to the side.

Although the Ukrainian soldier was young, he also knew the principle of pressing his advantage. He raised a foot and, before the other could regain his balance, kicked the leg that was supporting his body. The Soviet soldier clearly had not expected to be defeated so utterly. Caught off guard, he was kicked in the leg by the Ukrainian soldier and fell down with him.

The Ukrainian soldier, holding his bayonet, did not leave his opponent any chance. He followed the falling Soviet soldier and, with a surge of strength, plunged the bayonet on his rifle into the Soviet soldier’s chest.

Bright red blood flowed out along the groove on the bayonet, instantly staining the Soviet soldier’s greatcoat red. The sharp blade pierced the skin as easily as cutting through tofu, and the spattering blood was like a beautiful little flower blooming.

Without the slightest hesitation, the Ukrainian soldier pulled his bayonet out of the Soviet soldier’s body and then, in a fluid motion, chose another spot and plunged it in again. The blood splattered onto his gray-green German military uniform, but he paid it no mind. Watching as the Soviet soldier unwillingly dropped the gun in his hand, his pained eyes growing hazy, he only then pulled out his bayonet again.

“So…viet…” the Soviet soldier said, this one word coming from his blood-flecked mouth before he closed his eyes. His arm fell limply to the cold ground, and he moved no more. And that Ukrainian soldier was at this very moment hurrying to load the last clip of ammunition from his belt.

And not far from where this bayonet fight had taken place, a Soviet soldier had just finished off a young Ukrainian soldier with a shovel and was now panting, looking around for something. Perhaps he was looking for his next target, or perhaps he was looking for a route of escape.

But there was no need to worry about what he was looking for, because the Ukrainian soldier on this side, having finished loading his bullets, had already raised his rifle and aimed at this poor enemy in the distance. He pulled the trigger, and a bullet flew out, striking the other in the chest and ending his search.

He lowered his rifle, forcefully worked the bolt, ejected the spent casing, and then chambered the next round. He raised his rifle, aimed, and pressed the sights on a Soviet soldier who was in a standoff with someone else not far away. Then he fired decisively, sending the bullet into that unlucky bastard’s body, and then repeated the action.

This Ukrainian soldier could almost hear his own breathing. More Ukrainian soldiers jumped into the trench and ran past him. Some jumped into the trench and then fired their guns, covering the other friendly troops who were charging across the trench. This was followed by the other Soviet soldiers in the trench being hit and falling. Some raised their hands high, but were still shot through the head.

No one offered a word of comfort, no one stopped. The cold air made their breath visible as white smoke. Under the cold steel helmets were one after another of faces flushed red from the excessive adrenaline.

Kharkov. This place was supposed to be the graveyard of the German panzers, but now it had become a hell for the infantry. Blood flowed everywhere, making the city seem exceptionally crimson. In the square, a marble statue of Lenin was pulled down by a group of Ukrainian soldiers with ropes. It fell by the side of a flower bed and shattered into pieces. And of the Ukrainian soldiers who had just been laughing and putting ropes on the statue, one was subsequently shot in the head by a Soviet sniper.

Retaliatory artillery fire soon descended on all the buildings and streets in the vicinity. Several 75mm infantry field guns frantically poured out their ammunition, greeting every building near the small square. Some buildings collapsed completely, becoming a pile of rubble that was unrecognizable. Others were left with only a single wall standing alone, as desolate and despairing as a tombstone.

200,000 Soviet soldiers had been ordered to be stationed here, to block the German tanks with their flesh and blood. 200,000 Ukrainian soldiers had been ordered to attack here, to capture this city with their blood and will. Both sides were fighting with all their might, all for the fate of a country. It was just that one hoped for this country to live forever, and the other for this country to be destroyed.

“What a waste of time. Bombard the city center with heavy artillery. Let them know how war should be fought now!” an Italian officer said coldly, lowering his binoculars and pointing at the city in the distance, which was constantly erupting in flames and thick smoke.

At his command, the large-caliber heavy artillery that the Italian troops had transported from a thousand miles away let out their own roar. These heavy guns made up for the Ukrainian troops’ lack of heavy weapons, and the entire city began to tremble from the falling shells.

At sunset, the battle was still going on brutally. No one, because of the passing of time, or rather, the arrival of darkness, had given up on their mission. The cannons were still roaring, and the shells were still destroying one building after another, turning them into flat ground or even deep pits.

And to the east of this city, 100,000 Soviet troops who had withdrawn from Kharkov were marching day and night, hoping to retreat behind the Caucasus defense line before Guderian and to win a sliver of hope for the Soviet Union to survive.

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