Enemies rushed forward like a tidal wave, wave after wave, their dense figures looking terrifyingly ghost-like in the intertwining of night and gunfire. Their faces were smeared with camouflage paint, their eyes filled with ruthlessness and greed, and muffled roars issued from their mouths, resembling a horde of demons straight from hell.
Our soldiers, however, showed no fear whatsoever; they had long since put life and death behind them. They relied on fortifications built from sandbags, which had been riddled with holes by artillery shells yet still guarded the soldiers like loyal sentinels. The weapons in the soldiers' hands continuously spat tongues of fire, bullets whistling toward the enemy, each one carrying their anger and determination.
"Fire! Keep firing fiercely! Don't let these sons of bitches step foot into the camp!" the squad leader roared at the top of his lungs. His throat had long since gone hoarse from prolonged shouting, his voice sounding like a broken gong. His face was blackened by smoke and grime, leaving only a pair of eyes flashing with a resolute light. The rifle in his hands kept firing continuously; every time he pulled the trigger, his shoulder jerked violently from the recoil, and his body swayed slightly along with it, but his gaze remained locked tightly on the enemy, every action charged with rage.
Chapter 338