Seventy hours of battlefield experience, seventy hours of torment and struggle. In that time, Lynn learned endurance, survival, marksmanship, and the stamina to endure long marches. However, close-quarters combat still felt alien and terrifying to him.
Alone in the foxhole this time, fighting to shake off his rookie status, Lynn narrowly avoided the Soviet soldier's close-range barrage through reflex alone, but his mind remained chaotic. Only his subconscious urged him: staying in this foxhole would mean certain death—either riddled with bullets from the enemy's submachine gun or stabbed like a hornet's nest with a bayonet. Surrender? The fate of the Soviet prisoners after the ambush in the woods served as a stark reminder.
No choice!
The intense survival instinct made Lynn explode with potential like a spring compressed to its limit. With his right hand raised holding the shotgun, he shifted the muzzle slightly with each pull of the trigger. This was how action heroes in movies took down a dozen bad guys single-handedly. But even if supreme marksmanship existed, it required years of rigorous practice. Relying solely on imagination often led to disappointment. Though three shots hit their marks in close quarters, only one enemy was taken out of the fight. The wounds to the other two Soviet infantrymen's hands and shoulders, while painful, didn't incapacitate them; instead, they fueled their rage. Despite not being particularly burly, they could easily overwhelm Lynn in the foxhole.
At that critical moment, Lynn didn't think of family or deities. As he felt himself about to be at the enemy's mercy, he longed to see the agile figure of the "Butcher" and the staccato fire of his submachine gun once more. But with the sergeant and many comrades locked in deadly combat, their fates uncertain, who could spare a hand to help a poor grunt like him?
If he had a later-model shotgun capable of firing twenty rounds, dispatching these two Russkie soldiers would be child's play. But the current battle situation couldn't be altered by a simple upgrade in firepower. Even if he took down two, four, or six, Soviet soldiers would keep coming. Lynn had witnessed such scenes before.
Instinctively, he flung the empty shotgun as hard as he could, but it wasn't a dart. Despite hitting a Soviet soldier's chest a few meters away, it only caused minor discomfort without substantial harm. Thus, Lynn still faced two Soviet infantrymen, and to make matters worse, the one on the left suddenly slowed down, lowering his submachine gun.
Facing the muzzle about to spew flames, Lynn knew he couldn't dodge the bullets, even with his quick reflexes. He was filled with deep despair, recalling the gruesome scenes of comrades being riddled with bullets moments before death. It was like waiting in line for a vaccination in childhood, anticipating the pain of the bullet piercing his body, trying to keep himself from panicking when the moment finally arrived...
Bam!
Accompanied by this peculiar sound, Lynn, who dared not close his eyes, witnessed the Soviet submachine gunner convulse as if struck by lightning. His head slightly lifted, his upper body stiffened, his limbs seemed drained of strength, and he toppled backward in a grotesque twist. Just before falling, the submachine gun he held single-handedly began to roar, its muzzle spewing bright yellow flames as the stray bullets merely kicked up dirt on the ground.
Surviving by an incredibly fortuitous stroke of luck, Lynn had yet to savor the fleeting sense of relief when he was once again faced with mortal danger. Seeing another Soviet infantryman charging towards him, the novice in close combat resolved to fight for his life, grabbing the rifle with the bayonet ready to test his luck against his opponent. However, the next move from his adversary left him dumbfounded: despite reaching his side, the guy didn't lunge into the foxhole for a mano-a-mano showdown but instead slammed on the brakes, racked the bolt, and aimed the gun. With the distance so close, the bayonet tip was almost within Lynn's reach...
Alright! Lynn felt utterly hopeless. He had encountered a Russian who didn't play by the rules. Weren't they supposed to be all about hand-to-hand combat like the Japs? Why pull such a sneaky move, even sneakier than the Eyetalians? Couldn't this guy handle a bayonet duel? Fine, at this close range, aiming wasn't necessary. Come on, aim for grandpa's heart!
A myriad of scattered thoughts filled Lynn's mind in an instant. Just as he prepared himself for another heroic act, a sudden, peculiar sound reached his ears. Perhaps half a second later, this Russkie fool would have fired his gun.
A bullet struck and penetrated the Soviet steel helmet from a diagonal angle, and the poor guy probably never understood what happened.
Seeing the angle from which the bullet came, Lynn already had an answer in his mind. With such a rich reward for a smoke, a faint warmth surged in his heart once again. Skipping past the fallen enemy's unconscious bayonet, Lynn immediately crouched down, not to play dead but to use the corpse as temporary cover—a barrier against bullets and a means of concealment. Psychological shadows? Amidst this battlefield soaked in blood and slaughter, such concerns were trivial compared to preserving one's life.
The situation on the front lines remained chaotic, with most of what Lynn could see being Soviet troops. Scanning quickly, Lynn wondered who the next unlucky guy would be.
Hmph! That big Russian soldier charging toward the villa was huge, brandishing a bayonet. Probably a proficient hand-to-hand combatant. Let me do my brothers a favor and take him out!
Thinking thus, Lynn shifted the muzzle two body lengths ahead of the target, without pausing, and pulled the trigger. While his experience in shooting moving targets horizontally wasn't as extensive as vertically, the principle of estimating displacement was the same. And that guy wasn't smart enough to change direction and speed continuously, so this shot that was originally vertical immediately turned horizontal.
Beautiful!
Lynn restrained himself from shouting out loud, but internally, he cheered himself on with the loudest voice he could muster. Who's next? As he chambered another round, he slyly surveyed the battlefield from the edge of the foxhole. Oh, there's a handgun-wielding officer. Hey, he's shooting at the trenches nearby. Is he shooting at my brothers? You're asking for it!
Lynn raised the rifle, pressing the butt against the dead Soviet soldier's back. At that moment, the Soviet officer nearby lowered his head to load the pistol, slowing his pace. It was an opportunity like no other. Afraid his own sniper would beat him to it, Lynn quickly squeezed the trigger. The shot hit the target's head squarely, and the guy didn't even have time to shout before collapsing in a rigid heap.
Too beautiful!
Lynn continued to roar triumphantly in his mind, reloading once more. He targeted another Soviet soldier who was firing wildly, and once again, the shot sent the enemy tumbling. Despite being dead, the reflexes made the deceased continue pulling the trigger, and the submachine gun's indiscriminate fire ended up taking down two unlucky Russkies. Lynn was on the verge of bursting into laughter.
Despite the chaos on the battlefield, the Soviet soldiers didn't turn a blind eye to Lynn, and his consecutive shots quickly attracted new adversaries. However, with the experience of flirting with death earlier, Lynn remained calm. He chose the best defensive tactics beyond his imagination — either shooting directly, or crouching in the foxhole, the gun's muzzle leaning against its edge. He utilized the gaps when enemies approached to reload, firing immediately upon seeing their heads. Although such acting might make renowned directors vomit blood, it proved surprisingly effective on the battlefield. Occasionally, precise bullets came from the direction of the villa to "help out" in emergencies.
So there he was, a lone infantryman with a solitary rifle, hiding in a lonely foxhole. He seemed poised to be silently engulfed by the enemy's onslaught at any moment. Yet, with unexpected resilience and luck, he survived. As frontline German soldiers either fell or retreated under pressure, Lynn's foxhole subtly transformed from the rear of the main line to the forefront of the entire defensive position. It was akin to deploying a midfielder renowned for long-range shots as a striker — seemingly a waste, yet the only viable option.