The heavy machine gun's flanking fire was devastating to densely packed infantry.
They were completely exposed within its field of fire. Advancing meant death, retreating meant death, and staying prone in place was also death.
The gentle slope before the high ground had become a veritable slaughterhouse.
Platoon Sergeant Klaus and Corporal Jonah's faces were filled with shock and fervor.
They mechanically worked the bolts, aimed, and fired, sending round after round into enemy bodies.
They had never imagined that combat could be fought like this.
Platoon Leader Mo Lin's decision was simply a stroke of genius to them!
Because no one had ever carried cumbersome machine guns along during a tactical advance—to ninety-nine percent of Saxon Army soldiers, the machine gun was a purely defensive weapon, impossible to employ in the attack.
The Royal Army's first charge ended in total rout after over seventy percent of the soldiers in the first three ranks were killed on the spot.
The dense company column following behind these three ranks even attempted to launch a charge at Mo Lin and his men.
However, their even denser formation made it easier for the machine gunner to shoot. Sometimes a single .303 round could punch through two enemies in succession.
The entire dense column disintegrated completely just seconds after the machine gun's stream of fire swept toward them.
Mo Lin even saw a gradually emerging ferocious grin on the machine gunner's face—one that had seemed nervous and green before opening fire.
That was a smile unique to suppressive fire.
Facing the machine gun's unreasonable suppressive fire, the surviving Royal Army soldiers completely broke.
They wailed and shouted, discarding their weapons and scrambling backward in a frantic retreat, their morale completely shattered.
A few officers who still tried to hold their ground repeatedly raised their sabers high in an attempt to halt the rout—yes, officers at all levels of the Royal Army still maintained the tradition of carrying sabers on their person.
But such conspicuous, attention-grabbing antics on the battlefield were quickly cut down by the precise fire of Sergeant Klaus and the others.
The Royal Army soldiers who had surged up like a tide now retreated from the high ground like the ebbing tide.
Mo Lin, watching this scene, breathed a sigh of relief, then stopped the machine gunner from continuing to fire.
"All right, all right, conserve ammunition! We'll have plenty more fighting ahead!"
After speaking, he looked around at everyone nearby.
"Everyone check for injuries, then check your ammunition status!"
Soon, the men completed their checks. No one was injured. Or rather, the Royal Army had never managed to launch an effective counterattack to begin with.
However, everyone had expended nearly one-sixth of their ammunition, and the Vickers machine gun had essentially emptied its first belt.
"The regiment's machine gun company ought to be deployed to the front lines. There are few enough of them as it is, and now they won't even bring them out to use."
Mo Lin lay flat on the ground, letting his tense body relax slightly while he couldn't help complaining.
"Platoon Leader, what now?"
Sergeant Klaus leaned in close to Mo Lin's side and asked, eyes shining.
"Prepare to shift positions. We've just exposed our firepower, and the enemy's next attack might target us."
Mo Lin got up from the ground and shifted his attention to the 'system map,' preparing to find another temporary machine gun position.
And indeed, he found a more suitable location.
It was slightly farther from the top of the high ground, but several large trees toppled by artillery fire lay scattered about in disarray, perfectly serving as natural cover.
He immediately dispatched a soldier to sneak back to the top of the high ground to check on the status of the rest of the battalion, and by the way, relay his intentions to Captain Hauser and the others.
Having done this, Mo Lin led the remaining men in carrying the heavy Vickers machine gun and began to relocate silently.
The defeated Royal Army soldiers were still scattering and fleeing at the foot of the slope; no one noticed the movements of their small detachment at all. The entire relocation process went smoothly—almost surprisingly so.
Once the group reached the new temporary position, Mo Lin immediately had the men disperse, each find cover, and do a final weapons check.
"Everyone drink some water and catch your breath while you can. There's probably another hard fight coming up in a bit."
Mo Lin himself unscrewed his canteen and took a swig, then seized this rare lull to immerse his attention completely in the system map at the upper-left corner of his field of vision.
As friendly forces advanced across the entire front, the fog of war that had shrouded the area around Seville was largely dispelled, and the situation across the entire battle line was laid bare.
Red unit markers representing Royal Army forces were continuously flickering and vanishing.
The main attacking force, centered on the 16th Infantry Brigade, had already seized all the commanding heights with open sightlines to the southeast of Seville.
Most of those commanding heights had already changed hands by now.
The markers for two 77mm field artillery battalions were also slowly moving forward, preparing to occupy new positions to provide closer fire support for the coming offensive.
Three 105mm howitzer companies, less conveniently mobile, continued to engage from their original positions.
The overall battle situation looked overwhelmingly favorable.
At this rate, it seemed only a matter of time before the Saxons tore open Seville's outer defensive line completely.
But in Mo Lin's heart, that sense of unease grew increasingly heavy.
He clearly remembered that the intelligence he had brought back explicitly mentioned several elite enemy units—Highland Mages, the armored knights of the Order of the Garter, and that Northumberland Fusilier Regiment.
The enemy who had captured him when he first transmigrated over was also from the 4th Battalion of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment.
But until now, not a single one of these Britannian elite units had appeared on the map.
Could the enemy truly be planning to abandon the outer positions and stake everything on urban warfare?
The thought flashed through Mo Lin's mind, but he immediately rejected it.
That completely contradicted the mainstream military thinking of this era. Resorting to street combat while relying on sturdy city fortifications—what kind of desperate disadvantage would prompt such a choice?
But before Mo Lin could think it through, a new situation arose.
"Platoon Leader! They're coming again!"
Platoon Sergeant Klaus, lying behind a fallen tree trunk on watch, said in a lowered voice:
"The routed troops have been stopped by their officers and are re-forming!"
Almost simultaneously with Klaus's report, a brand-new unit appeared in Mo Lin's field of vision below the high ground.
Their uniforms were a dusty yellow, completely different from the Royal Army's black uniforms.
A brisk and rhythmic trumpet call, interspersed with the drumbeats of military drums, drifted up from the slope below.
That melody was one Mo Lin knew all too well—"The Grenadier March."
His heart sank. He dashed over to Klaus's side in a few steps and raised his binoculars.
Through the lenses, the newly appeared Britannian unit looked almost exactly like the British Army of World War I in his memory.
Khaki uniforms, and on their heads, the iconic 'flying saucer helmets' so beloved of Hong Kong film directors.
The only difference was that at the very front of their formation stood rows upon rows of heavily armored soldiers.
Some wielded massive two-handed swords, while others held kite shields in one hand and one-handed swords in the other, their entire bodies radiating an icy, keep-away aura.
On the system map, the detailed information for this unit promptly popped up as well.
[Holy Britannian Empire—Northumberland Fusilier Regiment—4th Battalion]
[Officers: 30]
[Enlisted and NCOs: 997]