The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

This vineyard is a typical old vineyard in the French countryside, with vines climbing every wooden frame and leaves so dense they resemble a wall, scattering sunlight in dappled patterns on the ground.

Joseph Lyndon led the third shift, crouching low as they passed under the grapevines.

No one speaks.

They had been walking for nearly two hours, bypassing the highway, entering the vineyard from a wheat field, and heading northwest along an unnamed dirt road.

Joseph walked in front, followed by O'Connor, then McDonald, then Tom, and then the others, thirteen people in a thin line.

It was at this moment that Joseph smelled tobacco.

He stopped and clenched his right fist behind him.

The line immediately stopped, and everyone stood still.

The sound of horses' hooves came from not far away, not fast, about fifteen to twenty meters away, separated by two rows of grapevines. Interspersed among them were voices; two people were chatting in German, their tone casual.

They were messengers. Two men, two horses.

Joseph stood there for a few seconds, his mind racing: firing wouldn't work, the sound of gunfire would give away their position, and they weren't even at the bridge yet. Letting them cross wouldn't work either, those two messengers might bring some news to the garrison once they reached the other side.

He turned to look at O'Connor, and gestured with his right index finger across his throat.

O'Connor narrowed his eyes and nodded slightly.

Joseph gestured to McDonald and Tom in turn, and each of them nodded upon receiving the gesture, but no one spoke.

They began to move quietly toward the row of grapevines.

Joseph switched the rifle to his left hand and touched the bayonet handle with his right.

Two German messengers rode side by side, slowly passing by the grapevines. One of them was laughing, and the other replied in German, then laughed as well.

Joseph waited behind the grapevines until the two horses' forelegs were parallel to his—

He moved.

He later recalled those few seconds as a fragmented, almost out-of-focus image: the weight of his right hand, the breath of the horse, the tremor before the other could utter a sound, and then the soft rustling of the grapevine leaves—nothing more.

On the left, O'Connor moved at the same time, equally clean and equally silent.

The two horses were startled and took two steps back. One of them let out a low, hoarse snort, then fell silent and stood still, pacing back and forth, seemingly unaware of what had happened.

The entire vineyard returned to silence.

O'Connor searched the German messenger's body, pulled out a leather briefcase, and handed it to Joseph.

Joseph opened his briefcase, which contained several folded documents. He glanced at them, and thanks to the German language skills he had acquired from the system's shop, he could easily understand the documents. It was a redeployment order issued by the First Legion to the garrison troops, timestamped this morning: some garrison forces were to move westward to plug gaps in the defenses.

This means there will be fewer people guarding the St. Gome Bridge, and even fewer people providing support.

Joseph stuffed his briefcase into his shoulder bag, turned around, waved to the group, and continued walking.

*****************

Two hours ago, this team had not yet been formed.

Joseph stood by the roadside, looking at the battlefield where the skirmish had just ended: dead horses, overturned ammunition carts, scattered packs, and half-empty cans of food. A German soldier's boots lay alone on a roadside stone, both boots neatly arranged, their owner nowhere to be seen.

The German army is in a bad state today—they have been marching for more than a month, and thought they were chasing the retreating British southward, but today they suddenly find that the British have turned around and are fighting back.

That bewilderment was real, written on the face of every captured German soldier.

At this point, the German main force had been transferred to the western flank to pursue the French, leaving only cavalry and scattered rearguards on the British front, without even any organized defensive positions. A huge gap existed in the British defenses, but the British themselves were unaware of it—or rather, they were aware but moved too slowly, overly cautious, fearing that a rash advance would lead to encirclement by the Germans.

Sir French was the kind of commander who was traumatized. He was terrified throughout the Great Retreat, and now that he was being ordered to launch a counterattack, he had to stop and check three times before taking a single step.

So Joseph knew that if they simply waited for the main force to slowly advance, by the time they reached the north bank of the Marne, the German army would have already withdrawn. History has shown that the British army hesitated too long in its counterattack and failed to cut off the German retreat in time. The Germans retreated to the Aisne Heights, dug their first trench on the Western Front, and then began a four-year trench stalemate.

But what if a fast squad could bypass the front and get there first—

He recalled the bridge on the map in his mind, the St. Gome Bridge.

The German troops, armed with more than a dozen heavy artillery pieces, could not advance quickly and had to take the main road. The nearest bridge across the river was there.

He went to the company commander, but the commander wouldn't listen. He then went to the division headquarters, and thankfully Brigadier General Hill remembered him.

Joseph spread the map on the table and explained the route, the bridge, the possible location of the artillery battalion, and the current weakness of the German right flank in the simplest terms.

"How do you know they'll take this route?" the brigadier general asked.

"Because this is the shortest route, and they have heavy artillery, they have no other choice but to cross the river."

He didn't say that he also knew that most of the main force of the German First Army had been transferred westward, leaving the front lines vulnerable. That information was too precise for a corporal to say, so it would seem suspicious. It was better to let the brigadier general make the judgment.

Brigadier General Hill looked down at the map for a long time.

"If you make the wrong judgment, you know the consequences."

"I understand, sir."

"Give him a full complement of manpower."

*******************

When Joseph came out of the division headquarters, O'Connor was leaning against the fence, taking a cigarette out of her mouth. "How was it?"

"Walk."

"Did it work?"

"It's done."

O'Connor tucked the cigarette behind his ear and followed him. "You're always going to talk to the general, whether you have something to say or not."

"You can go too."

"I'm not going," the Irishman said. "I hate places where the whole room is covered in maps; it's too boring."

***************

A few low trees stood at the top of the hill, their canopies carving an irregular outline of the horizon. Joseph walked up to the top of the hill and stopped.

The St. Gome Bridge is just ahead.

This is a gray stone bridge spanning a tributary of the Little Moran River.

The bridge was about five meters wide, with thick stone piers. On the south bank of the bridgehead was a low stone wall, with a machine gun mounted behind it, muzzle facing south. Seven German soldiers guarded it, two at the machine gun positions, the rest scattered on either side. A village lay on the north bank.

"We've arrived." Joseph put down his binoculars.

He squatted down the slope, sketching on the ground with a twig. Thirteen people formed a semicircle, all looking down at the lines he had drawn.

Joseph looked at them one by one.

O'Connor, Tom, McDonald, and a core member of his survivor squad.

Thomas, the South African veteran whom Brigadier General Hill had assigned to him, has yet to utter a single unnecessary word.

Then there were the remaining nine people: Pierce, Brown, Wilkins, Ross, and five others whose names he couldn't quite recall; he only recognized their faces.

There were thirteen people, seven guards on the opposite side, and an unclear garrison from the village on the north bank.

"McDonald, you take the machine gun and provide frontal suppression. Aim at that Maxim machine gun—don't aim for a hit, just make sure it can't lift its head. O'Connor, you take Pierce and Brown, go around to the left through that bush, get to a position at a 45-degree angle to the bridge, block that corner, and signal me when you get there. I'll take the middle position and push from the center."

"Three sets alternating?" Thomas asked.

"Yes. Mike presses the front, the left flank moves forward; the left flank fires, the center moves forward. The German machine gunners have to cover two directions at the same time, which is too much for them. Machine gunners are human, not machines; they can only focus on one thing."

"What will happen to the villages on the north bank?"

"Let's take over the bridgehead first." Joseph threw away the branch, stood up, and asked, "Any problems?"

No one spoke; they all nodded.

Before leaving, O'Connor patted Joseph on the shoulder without saying anything, then led Pierce and Brown into the bushes on the left wing, their figures quickly swallowed by the greenery.

"Are you nervous?" Tom asked in a low voice, squatting down beside him.

"I'm not nervous."

He lied, but lying is not important here.

From the bushes on the left wing came a bird call that sounded like a whistle.

O'Connor has arrived.

"McDonald, fire."