The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

Just then, Wilkins returned.

He was followed by a cannon. Not the heavy support Joseph had requested, but a light cavalry field gun, part of a mounted artillery squad that led the infantry.

Wilkins, panting, spoke haltingly, "...I met them on the road. They were heading east, but I stopped them and said there were German heavy artillery pieces here... The lieutenant said he'd come and take a look first..."

The lieutenant, Bailey, was someone Joseph had met before setting off. He was a young man, mounted on horseback. He glanced down at the mess at the bridgehead, then at the infantry gun firing on the north bank of the road. His expression didn't change much. "Where is the target?"

"On the north bank, to the east, in the open space in front of the village, about 500 meters away, there's an infantry gun and infantry assembled. Fire the gun first, then fire on the infantry!"

"Loading, target correction—release!"

boom--

The shell whizzed overhead, flew across the bridge, and landed next to the infantry gun on the north bank, exploding and sending plumes of smoke into the air. The German gunners scattered to the sides.

"It's five meters off-center, fix it to the left—"

"Correct, load—release!"

The second shot hit. The infantry gun carriage was blown over, the barrel tilted to one side, two gunners fell, and the rest ran away.

"Infantry, the group in front, forty meters away, fire!"

The shells landed in the advancing German infantry formation. Boom! Shrapnel flew everywhere. The first group of men who were about to get up and charge were cut off, and a large number of them fell. The men behind them stopped and scattered. The momentum of the entire charge was abruptly broken.

"Again, to the east side!"

The fourth shot landed in the German group pressing O'Connor on the east side. Boom! The gunfire on the east side subsided at that moment.

McDonald's machine gun emptied its last magazine.

Click.

The soft sound was exceptionally clear in the silence following the cannon fire, like a period.

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

The German troops began to retreat, but not because they were outmatched.

Joseph saw mounted officers pacing back and forth at the edge of the village on the north bank. Then, the gunfire on the north bank subsided—an order to retreat had been given.

He knew what had happened.

The German troops on the south bank, armed with heavy artillery, had been waiting for far too long.

The shadow of the main British forces has already appeared on the southern highway, though they are still far away.

The commander on the north bank did the math: if they continued fighting, their brothers on the south bank might be able to recapture the bridge, but the main British force would also arrive; if they stopped fighting, abandoned the heavy artillery on the south bank, and withdrew their men from the pontoon bridge upstream, they could at least bring the entire army back.

Cannons can be rebuilt, but once the legion is gone, it's gone forever.

At that very moment, a series of muffled explosions rang out from the highway on the south bank. It wasn't a firefight; German artillerymen were using grenades to destroy the breechblocks of their own heavy artillery. Those 150mm howitzers that couldn't escape were pushed off the road, and horses fell amidst the gunfire.

Joseph knew that the game was over, and the German army had chosen the most painful way to cut its losses and survive.

The German troops on the north bank began to retreat, shrinking into the villages and moving further north towards the highway.

O'Connor stood beside them, resting his rifle on the earthen mound, the muzzle circling the retreating gray figures, but he didn't pull the trigger.

He lowered his gun and looked at Joseph: "Chase them?"

"Don't chase."

Why?

"Because they're retreating, not running away," Joseph said. "Chasing after fleeing soldiers can earn you some credit. Chasing after retreating professional soldiers is suicide."

O'Connor reset the bolt: "How do you know everything?"

Joseph didn't respond. He laid the empty rifle across his lap, leaned against the bridge pier, and gasped for breath.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand and found that nothing was clean; the mud and sweat were mixed together and smeared even more evenly.

He felt his sleeve was wet, and looking down, he realized that his left arm had been grazed by shrapnel from one of the shells earlier. The wound wasn't deep, so he casually tore off a piece of bandage and wrapped it around his arm, leaving it alone.

"Take a headcount," he said in a hoarse voice. "Report any casualties."

Brown has an arm injury, Pierce has a twisted ankle, Ross has shrapnel in his leg, Tom has a concussion, and O'Connor—the Irishman—had just come back from the east side with a bloody line on his outside thigh, bandaged but not affecting his walking. "Skinny," he said preemptively, "don't ask."

Joseph counted them; thirteen people, all present.

No casualties.

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

The British troops arrived at 6:40 p.m.

The first to arrive was a company, with the company commander on horseback at the front, followed by the infantry. They walked at a leisurely pace, their horses' hooves clattering on the road in a rhythmic manner. Their clothes were fairly clean, and their boots had a little mud on them.

Joseph stood at the bridgehead, watching the group approach from the south, then looked at the people around him—covered in mud and blood, O'Connor's bandages on his legs were soaked with red, McDonald was squatting next to the empty machine gun, wiping the dust off the barrel, and Tom was sitting by the bridge pier, his face still pale.

Joseph glanced at the approaching company commander, compared the two, and muttered something to himself, but didn't say it aloud.

The company commander rode his horse onto the bridge and stopped in front of Joseph.

He sized Joseph up and down, then looked at the group behind him, then at the bound German prisoners and the makeshift stone fortifications, before finally fixing his gaze on the row of abandoned artillery pieces on the road—

A dozen or so German heavy artillery pieces lay haphazardly across the road, their breechblocks warped from the explosion, their dark muzzles pointing slanted toward the sky.

The company commander was silent for a moment. "You're Corporal Lyndon?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long have you been on guard?"

"From 2:03 PM to 4:20 PM, sir. Two hours and seventeen minutes."

The company commander glanced at the bridge pier, which had been partially destroyed, the craters, the scattered shell casings, and the machine gun with its empty magazine. "How many casualties?"

"Five men slightly wounded, no casualties, sir."

This silence was longer than the last.

"You prevented the Germans from taking these artillery pieces, and the division headquarters will know." He paused for a moment, "However, the main German force has already withdrawn. Our army, due to... the problem of the speed of advance, failed to plug the gap."

"Yes, sir."

"We received your signal, but the confirmation process... took some time—"

"How long, sir?"

The company commander paused for a moment, then added, "About six hours."

Six hours later, Joseph thought to himself. The Germans had long since withdrawn. The bridge was held, but the breach wasn't plugged. In the end, this was the result.

But he didn't say anything, he just nodded.

"I'll go back and take inventory—"

"Wait a minute." The company commander called out to him, taking out a piece of military-issued chocolate from his pocket.

"Here you go," he said, his tone finally softening a bit. "Well done, Corporal Lyndon."

Joseph took the chocolate, waved it behind his back, and said, "Here, let's share."

O'Connor was the first to reach out, "I want the biggest piece; I did the most work today."

"You did the most?" Wilkins immediately objected, the scratch on his face tugging upwards as he frowned. "Where did this scratch on my face come from—"

"That's because you didn't hide well enough."

"Why didn't I hide better—"

"Alright, alright," Tom took the chocolate from Joseph's hand, bent down and began to carefully break it apart, his expression serious. "I'll divide it; I'll divide it the most fairly."

"You were unfair when you distributed the bread last time."

"Last time it was bread, this time it's chocolate," Tom looked up, serious. "They're different."

The company commander stood aside, watching the mud-covered men arguing fiercely. He paused for a moment, swallowed back the words he was about to say, and turned to walk towards his soldiers.