Curious eyes scanned the battlefield through the eyepieces, filling those eyes with undisguised shock and incredulity.

After the scrubbing of the ground by cluster bombs and white phosphorus smoke bombs, can there still be living people? Could the group of Charlemagnes on the other side be made of iron?

Every officer and soldier of the defense has such a question in their minds. They knew all too well the power of cluster bombs and white phosphorus bombs, and after being washed by those things, although the ground would not be left without grass, any creature larger than a rat would definitely be guaranteed to die, and it would be a miracle that a human-sized target could leave a complete corpse.

However, it was under such a terrible blow that Charlemagne actually survived and dared to shoot at them with anti-tank rifles.

That bullet not only sounded the armor of the Tiger fighting vehicle, but also the psychological armor of the defense officers and soldiers, making them feel the shock.

Shelling and bombing alone could wipe out the enemy troops hiding in the bunkers – the British, the Germans, the Americans, the Soviets all thought about it and put it into practice. However, in the Battle of the Somme, the British could not bury all the Germans in the tunnels after three days and three nights of artillery preparation. The Germans also tried one after the other at Verdun, on the Marne, on the Brest Fortress, on Sevastopol, at Stalingrad, on Warsaw, again without a single success. The Americans, who never lacked steel and explosives, dropped countless munitions on Iwo Jima, Okinawa, North Korea, and Vietnam, and ended up either making unbearable memories or nearly drowning in the quagmire of war. The Soviet Red Army, known as a fighting nation, had no upper limit on artillery shells, cluster bombs, mines, poison gas, and incendiary bombs in Afghanistan, except for the atomic bomb, all kinds of weapons in the equipment sequence were used one by one, but they still failed to clear the guerrillas hiding in the caves, and finally withdrew from the imperial cemetery in disgrace and ushered in the collapse of the Red Empire.

It would be naïve to expect a single round of carpet bombing and white phosphorus bombing to wipe out an enemy army with a complete trench system.

In any case, the defense system of St. Manger is also a model position used to deal with the inspection of the superiors, and there is no shortage of all the things that should be there, and the functions of anti-artillery, fire prevention, and anti-poison are all available. Had it not been for the lack of training of the defenders, who panicked and fled when bombed, instead of hiding in underground bunkers and leaving only a handful of troops on the ground to keep watch, the white phosphorus smoke incendiary bombs would not have caused more than single-digit casualties.

To put it bluntly, it was not the inhumane weapons of the Defence that caused the heavy casualties of the defenders of St. Mange, but the stupid bureaucrats crouching in the offices of the Sedang fortress, and it was their dereliction of duty and slackness that destroyed the eighty percent of the defenders of St. Mange and the last possibility of stopping Army Group B from rushing to the Meuse.

Sergeant Flavenny and his men survived the indiscriminate bombardment, an achievement to be proud of, given the record of Charlemagne's Army's previous encounters with the Wehrmacht. The soldier or officer who accomplished this feat should be promoted, decorated and issued with commemorative stamps, and his story should be included in school textbooks that inspired generations of loyal and patriotic Charlemagnes to follow suit.

But the person concerned had little interest in the praise and honor, and all that filled his mind at this moment was hatred, fear, and pain that could not be erased.

Sergeant Flaveni is now the platoon leader of their infantry platoon, which by this time has only nine men, five single-shot rifles, an anti-tank rifle and three stinging mines. Two of the survivors had their eyes burned, another had severe burns to his lungs, and Sergeant Flavenny, who had a little veterinary experience, had to cut his trachea with a bayonet, leaving all his comrades who survived the same waterlogged bombhole as him.

One sergeant, two privates, three rookies, three seriously wounded, six guns and three spine mines - this is the only combat force left in the 200-meter position. Opposite them, there was an armored battle group of brigade level.

No one, including the parties themselves, believed that Charlemagne's side could win. They can only choose between a dignified surrender and an honorable death.

Without a hint of hesitation, Sergeant Flaveni grabbed his anti-tank rifle and slung the loaded shoulder bag to his shoulder.

The sergeant had no higher education, so he could only spell his own name, and he had to work with a chaplain or a deputy ghostwriter to write a letter on weekdays. What is eight and one Yu, what is the sacrifice of jade, for this old non-commissioned officer in his fifties, it is completely a distant story in another world. It stands to reason that he shouldn't have gambled his life for something that didn't matter.

However, as a good old sergeant who admits death, Sergeant Flavenny firmly believes that a soldier has what a soldier has to do, even if it is a million-strong army opposite, he must hold on until the last moment - this is the fate of being a soldier.

The tip of the bipod was deeply embedded in the sandbag, the sergeant put the butt against his shoulder, the hand holding the grip pulled down hard, the grip drew a semicircle along the fixed axis of the receiver, the linked bolt was opened, and the recruit, who acted as a loader, hurriedly filled a 12.7mm round into the exposed chamber, the grip was re-lifted, locked, and loaded, and with the "click" sound of the receiver, the anti-tank rifle was loaded, and the two privates stepped forward to stand still, and put their hands on Flavenny's shoulders.

The sergeant put the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, suppressed his panic and unease, and looked in the direction of the junction, which was shrouded in thick fog.

The legend of the .50OVER was well known in Charlemagne's army, and the gun was inextricably linked to the tragic fate of the user, and Flaveni had heard those rumors, and witnessed the guy who had to retire early after his shoulder blade was shattered. At that time, the old sergeant, who had already retired, also wondered if he should take some time to test the shooting, and then go home to recuperate for a few months and then continue farming. Before the sergeant could carry out the plan, the ghosts were killed. Now operating this infamous rifle, Sergeant Flaveni couldn't help but sigh to himself that fate had made him.

After holding his breath for a moment, there was a cacophony on the other end of the fog, followed by the roar of machinery. Discerning the direction of the mechanical sound, Sergeant Flavenny pulled the trigger on a looming shadow in the fog.

The orange glow of the fire, the roar of a grenade in his ears, and the churning vision were the first information the brain captured, and a moment later, the smell of gunsmoke filled his nose, and a soldering iron pain spread along his shoulders and arms, and Sergeant Flavenny's brain tossed in waves of pain. It took a good five seconds for the sergeant to breathe a sigh of relief, and then at the burn marks in the shape of his shaking palms and palm grips, and then at Private Domiel, who was patting him on the shoulder and yelling something, and the sergeant realized that he couldn't hear anything.

- What the hell is this?

The sergeant raised his trembling right hand and shook it, signaling that he was fine, while cursing loudly in his heart to the people who designed and produced this anti-tank rifle.

You must know that although he shoots from a standing position, the butt is equipped with a spring to absorb recoil, and two people are supported from behind to spread the recoil just in case.

Even so, the huge impact still made the bones of the whole body creak, and after just one shot, the body of the gun was extremely hot, and even burned the right hand holding the grip.

Rifles that can only be fired once;

.50OVER;

With the horrific legends and nicknames in his mind, Sergeant Flavenny gritted his teeth and tugged at the bottom of the grip with his right hand again.

After a rough sound of metal rubbing against each other, the red bullet case ejected, the brass shell was already tattered, and if you looked closely at the inside of the chamber, the gunpowder residue and metal fragments adhered to the magazine flickering and flickering, and a wave of heat hit the sergeant's face, and as the heat rose and distorted the light, the magazine swayed and twisted in the sergeant's eyes like an oil pot or a steel-making furnace.

Loading ammunition into it is no different than pouring explosives into a red-hot iron pot.

The loader on the side looked at Flaveni in fear, the sergeant nodded, and the young man quickly filled the magazine with a 20mm thick warhead, and then dodged away.

The privates stepped forward again to hold the sergeant's shoulder, and Sergeant Flavenny glanced back at the two old fellows who had been born and died many times. Domielle nodded silently at him, but Podhall remained expressionless, his empty left hand clutching an envelope from home a week earlier, telling the 58-year-old private that his son had been drafted and that his daughter-in-law had given birth to a baby boy, and that he was now a grandfather......

The veterans did not communicate, they did not need superfluous words. They knew very well that no one could guarantee that this rifle would withstand the next shot. Even if you are lucky enough to withstand 10 rounds? With just the few men and guns at hand, you can't stop the enemy from flooding in. If the other side is smart enough to not even waste time adjusting their forces, an infantry company can find out what is really going on here with a tentative attack, and then they will quickly tear through the line and annihilate the remaining defenders.

This village can no longer be defended, and I am afraid that this war will also ......

If they die here no matter what, as a veteran, as an old man, merit, honor, and wealth are no longer important to them at this moment. But if you can die on the battlefield instead of a young man, it can be regarded as a merit. After a lifetime of fighting on the battlefield, the veterans can still play a little bit in the end, and the veterans even feel a little happy and relieved about this.

- God.

- O Mother Goddess Almighty.

We pray to you and offer you our flesh and blood.

If you can hear our prayers, then please let our children and grandchildren not face this kind of killing again, and not repeat the mistakes of the past!

Carrying the voices of the veterans, the anti-tank rifle roared again.

On a foggy battlefield, a shot that can only be roughly aimed is not accurate, and even if you are lucky enough to hit a tank, it is impossible to penetrate the armor of a heavy tank. But for veterans, it doesn't matter.

That's not a fight back, it's not a death throes.

It's just that the roar of life and prayer is sent by this rifle.

One more shot, one more shot—

Thunderous cries rang out one after another, as if they were about to tear through the dark clouds, until the fourth unprecedented roar and the strange sound that seemed to strangle metal tore through the battlefield, and all was quiet again.

###############

The final capture of St. Mange by the Defence forces was four hours later, at 13 o'clock in the afternoon, when all the infantry battalions stationed in the village were killed, and not a single one surrendered or was captured.

The belligerents were not surprised by this result, but the defenders were so impressed by the death that they held out to the last man, and it is not an exaggeration to say that it was a mental shock. This is mentioned in the battle reports and war history of the Defense Forces, and the one that best represents the senses of front-line officers and soldiers is a written record left by the commander of the 101st Experimental Heavy Armored Battalion who participated in the war.

"This is a group of brave people, a group of real warriors, who have defended their flag and honor with their actions. After this battle, I believe that there will never be anyone in our army who will blindly believe that the Charlemagnes are nothing more than a bunch of cowards who are about to collapse? If anyone dares to make a big statement, please lie down on the front armor and charge with the troops, and experience for himself the power of the 'cowards.' To be honest, I don't think our army would have been more brave than these Charlemagnes if it had been replaced. ”

Nona stood at the edge of the trench, and not far in front of her, there were three corpses stacked on top of each other. About 10 meters away, several young men in the uniforms of King Charlemagne's army were lying on their backs in the trenches, and these children, who were no longer the age of Nona, clutched their weapons and faced in the direction of the Panzergrenadiers.

The corpse in front of Nona's eyes was highly damaged, the outermost two corpses were barely recognizable, and the innermost corpse was unrecognizable, not only the part above the neck was blown up, but the uniform was also badly burned, and even the identity and rank were unrecognizable (Charlemagne's royal army did not popularize dog tags).

The three bodies remained in the standing position in which they were found, two privates holding the shoulders of the third, the unknown third holding the shoulders against the massive butt of the gun, the left hand missing, the charred right hand gripping the grip and the index finger gripping the trigger.

Moving his gaze slightly, there was a metal tube that had burst from within, and the handguard and hoop that held the barrel in place had also been blown to shreds, and the metal that had once been the metal of the anti-tank rifle was now a twisted bouquet that stood on the quiet trench.

Sighing softly, Nona continued:

"If Charlemagne's men had better weapons in their hands and enough qualified officers to command them, I am afraid that this battle would have dragged on for much longer, and our army would have faced a more complicated and difficult situation. ”

When she was done, Nona gently dried her ink, reread it and found nothing wrong, then put the notebook in her jacket pocket, turned around and ran back to her car, and with a roar, Nona and her troops rushed to the next battlefield, along with this little war that could fit in your pocket—

Behind her stood forest-like single-shot rifles, each muzzle down into the mound, each with a military cap hanging from its stock.