Southern guerrilla warfare: I led the Red Seventh Army Corps to amassed a million troops.

The gunfire at Wufeng Mountain had barely ceased for less than ten minutes, and the soil at the edge of the trenches was still soft from the shells being turned over, when another charge by the Nationalist army pressed forward.

On the mountainside, the assault team of the 77th Division of the National Revolutionary Army was scattered in a loose arc.

They carried their guns, crouched low, and advanced up the hillside. The sound of their footsteps and the officers' shouts mingled together, like a net being pulled in.

At the highest point on the mountaintop, an M1917 heavy machine gun was spitting fire.

The bullet belt whirred as it was fed into the receiver, the dense bullet trajectory sweeping across the hillside, making the soil puff and smoke, firmly pinning the front line of the skirmishers to the spot.

Just as several Nationalist soldiers were about to peek out of the shell crater, a burst of bullets chased after them, forcing them to pull their heads back in and lie motionless in the mud.

Old Li from the machine gun squad was lying prone behind the heavy machine gun, the gun barrel trembling violently in front of him.

He had already fired two full packs of bullets; the barrel was so hot that you could feel the scorching heat even through the shroud.

"Squad leader! Squad leader! The water's here!"

A young soldier ran up from the back of the mountain carrying a tin bucket.

Old Li glanced back, released the handle, and shouted to the side, "Quick! Pull out the tube!"

The soldiers hurriedly pulled open the water inlet plug of the water-cooling jacket and poured the bucket of water in.

The moment the water was poured in, the outer wall of the gun barrel emitted a soft hissing sound and a small cloud of white steam rose up.

The M1917 Browning heavy machine gun is a typical water-cooled heavy machine gun. It has a thick sleeve outside the barrel to hold the coolant and cool the overheated barrel.

Therefore, in arid and water-scarce areas, the effectiveness of this water-cooled heavy machine gun would be greatly reduced.

Fujian, located in the south, has abundant rainfall and streams in its mountains, so there is no need to worry about water shortages.

Old Li gripped the handle again, pulled the bolt, and the muzzle once more spat fire at the hillside.

"Luckily there's water on this mountain, otherwise we'd just have to hope. We've got enough stuff." Old Li muttered to himself without turning his head as he fired.

Taking advantage of a lull in the machine gun fire, the Nationalist army's supervising officers charged up from the rear, brandishing their pistols and kicking the soldiers lying prone in the mud.

"Get up! All of you, get up! The Red Army is out of bullets! Charge uphill! The first one to reach the top will be rewarded with a hundred silver dollars and promoted one rank!"

The Nationalist soldiers on the mountainside were forced to stand up and grit their teeth to continue charging upwards.

But they were still met with a hail of bullets.

The Enfield rifles on the position fired accurately, and with each shot, someone fell.

Two Browning automatic rifles fired alternately from both sides of the trench, their short bursts clean and crisp, like an invisible sickle cutting through a wheat field.

The soldiers who had charged less than twenty paces fell one after another. Some fell and did not move, while others curled up in the shell craters, clutching their wounds and shouting.

The 77th Division of the National Revolutionary Army was He Jian's Hunan Army unit, and their equipment level was significantly inferior to that of the Central Army.

Compared to the Red 12th Army, which was equipped with American weapons, it was like heaven and earth.

Meanwhile, the heavy machine gun on the mountaintop, now filled with water, rejoined the battle, its bullets raining down from a higher position, cutting off the last few rows of charging figures in half.

This charge completely fell apart.

The survivors scrambled down the mountain, retreating more than twice as fast as they had come up.

From the observation post at the highest point on the mountaintop, the Red Army battalion commander was holding up binoculars, clearly seeing the scene on the hillside.

He glanced at the retreating Nationalist troops on the hillside, then suddenly clenched his fist: "Good! It's this late, and their reinforcements haven't arrived yet. This is an opportunity!"

He turned around and shouted behind him, "Old Wei! Let's launch a counterattack immediately and push the Nationalist army back!"

Instructor Wei, a man in his mid-thirties, was squatting by the trench, wiping his Mauser pistol.

Upon hearing the battalion commander's voice, he suddenly stood up, tucked the half-cleaned gun into his waistband, and grabbed the broadsword stuck at the front of the position.

The blade of the knife was polished to a shine, and the handle, wrapped with red cloth strips, had a layer of dark, old stains.

He slung the knife over his shoulder and shouted to the soldiers behind him, "Alright! I'll lead the charge! Battalion Commander, you take command from the center!"

Without waiting for the battalion commander's reply, he turned and roared, "Bugler, sound the charge! Comrades, follow me!"

The resounding bugle call shattered the tranquility of dusk.

Almost simultaneously, the soldiers in the trenches rolled out from behind their bunkers, bayonets at the ready, and poured down the hillside.

Not only the soldiers in the trenches, but also the clerks, buglers, and medics in the battalion headquarters, and even the young soldier carrying the water bucket, drew their bayonets and rushed down after the red flag.

Gray figures surged out from the mountaintop, like a torrent whose sluice gates had been opened, rushing rapidly down the slope of the hillside.

The battalion commander stood alone on the observation post atop the mountain, watching the crowd recede into the distance, and seeing his knife taken away by the political instructor again. He hesitated, wanting to say something but unable to.

He looked around and found only two sentries with rifles still standing there. "Damn, who's the military officer here?"

Down the mountain, Instructor Wei had already rushed to the front of the group.

His broadsword gleamed with a dark white light in the twilight, and with a reckless and unbridled spirit, he led a group of men into the scattered lines of the Nationalist army that had not yet managed to regroup.

The morale on the position suddenly reached its peak with the sound of the bugle, while the Nationalist troops on the hillside, who had just turned back from a failed charge and had not yet regained their footing, were hit head-on by the momentum of the counterattack.

Instantly, chaos erupted as the Nationalist army collapsed, some fleeing and others surrendering, unable to mount any effective resistance.

In the distant Nationalist army command post, Jiang Dingwen had just finished listening to his staff officer's report, and his face was so gloomy it was almost dripping with water.

He grabbed the enamel teacup on the table and smashed it on the ground.

"Commander Luo!" He turned around, his gaze fixed on the middle-aged man standing beside the map. "How many charges have you made? Why can't you take Wufeng Mountain? Are your soldiers eating pig swill?"

When Luo Lin's name was called, he raised his head. His face was not obsequious, but rather showed a anger that had been suppressed for a long time.

"Commander-in-Chief Jiang! You don't need to worry about what my brothers eat. But when you transferred us from Hunan, you promised you'd never treat us Hunan Army brothers as outsiders, and that we wouldn't be cannon fodder. But look at the state of this battle!"

He pointed out the window: "We launched seven attacks this morning, suffering over eight hundred casualties. If we're not cannon fodder, what are we?"