The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

The campsites along the river were set up in a seemingly chaotic yet orderly fashion.

The main force had just finished assembling, and the tents were not yet fully set up. Soldiers sat on the ground in twos and threes. Some took off their boots to air their feet, some put their rifles on their knees to polish them, and some lay down directly on the grass, their hats covering their faces, sleeping like dead pigs.

In the first hour after making a contribution, everyone has the right to be a dead pig.

Joseph leaned against a large oak tree, letting the medic re-bandage the abrasion on his left arm. The injury wasn't serious; it was just a cut, but the medic insisted on cleaning it thoroughly.

"All done." The medic tied the knot. "Don't get it wet."

"I will try my best."

O'Connor sat cross-legged beside him, holding a cup of hot tea that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, sipping it noisily.

He was particularly satisfied today, and had every right to be satisfied—he had been squatting at the bridgehead for more than two hours, suppressing the German soldiers who were trying to sneak onto the bridge from the flank, their rifles practically burning from the fire.

"Guess what that German officer on the other side was thinking in the end?" O'Connor said.

"What are you thinking about?" Tom asked.

He realized one thing: today is not his good day.

Tom grinned. McDonald, head down, tidied his toolbox, his lips twitching slightly as if he were smiling.

"Corporal Lyndon?"

The messenger ran over, his boots covered in mud, still out of breath.

"The brigadier wants to see you, now."

O'Connor slowly took a sip of tea. "What trouble have you gotten into now?"

"They captured a bridge."

"Every time you steal something, someone comes to talk to you. Have you ever considered that this might not be a coincidence?"

Joseph stood up, straightened his uniform, and followed the messenger.

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

The division headquarters was located in a farmhouse by the river.

Brigadier General Hill stood at the table, with two staff officers beside him. A map was spread out on the table, and a report was placed on the side.

Joseph entered, stood at attention, and said, "Reporting for duty, sir."

Hill looked up, glanced at him, and then looked at the report on the table.

"17th Infantry Division, 4th Battalion, A Company, 2nd Platoon, captured Bridge No. 2 of the Little Moran River, annihilated the German troops guarding the bridge, and captured two 77mm field guns." He paused. "When was the last time you received a commendation?"

"Two weeks ago, sir."

"Two weeks ago, a unit of new recruits encountered Ulan cavalry. You led the recruits to repel them and captured a German map. Based on that map, the intelligence department discovered a loophole in the German defenses." Hill looked up. "That was you."

"Yes, sir."

"You were the one who seized the bridge this time."

"Yes, sir."

Hill was silent for a moment. He put his hands behind his back and paced around the room a few steps—not pacing, but thinking.

"Staff members, you may leave."

The two staff officers exchanged a glance, took their notebooks, and left, closing the door behind them.

Only Joseph and Brigadier General Hill remained in the room.

"Sit down," Hill said, gesturing to the chair.

Joseph sat down in the chair. Hill sat down opposite him, looking at him with a very direct gaze.

"You're just a regular soldier," Hill said. "I'm not trying to belittle you, it's just a fact. By procedure, your merit today should be reported, you might get an honorary nomination next week, and maybe even a three-tiered demerit later. That's the normal process."

"Yes, sir."

"But I don't want to talk about that right now." Hill tapped the map lightly with his finger. "I want to ask you—what do you think the German army's current situation is?"

Joseph thought for a few seconds. It wasn't that he couldn't think of anything; he was thinking about how best to say it.

"I'm exhausted, sir," he said. "Supplies are running out, the front lines are stretched too thin, we've advanced nearly three hundred miles in two months, even the most elite troops are reaching their limits. And—" He paused, "the German troops we've encountered these past few days are getting increasingly poorly supplied. At first, the German soldiers had plenty of ammunition and high morale, attacking us whenever they saw us. Lately, they've been mostly on the defensive, not taking the initiative. A unit that switches from offense to defense either receives orders or simply doesn't have the resources to attack."

"You think it's the latter?"

Both exist, but the latter is more common.

Hill looked down at the map for a moment, then asked, "So, what do you think the German army will do next?"

Joseph knew the answer.

History books clearly state that the German army would retreat from the Marne River to the Eisner River, where the two sides would begin a long trench standoff, thus establishing the pattern of the Western Front war.

But he couldn't say that.

"We'll withdraw," he said. "And very soon."

"How fast?"

"Within three days, sir, you will see their entire battle line shift northward on the map."

"What if you're wrong?" Hill said.

"Then call me again, and I'll accept the punishment."

Hill stood up, walked to the edge of the map, and moved a marker flag northward.

"Go."

Joseph stood up, stood at attention, and turned around.

As I reached the door, Hill's voice came from behind me.

"Linden".

"Sir?"

"Does your squad—O'Connor, McDonald, that Tom guy—know just how good you are?"

Joseph paused. "They know how good they are, sir."

Hill remained silent for a moment.

"Go."

Joseph opened the door and went outside, where he was greeted by the afternoon sun and the lively, bustling atmosphere of the camp.

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

Back under the oak tree, O'Connor had already drunk Joseph's cup of tea.

"How is it?"

"We discussed the battle situation."

"What are you talking about regarding the battle situation? You're just a corporal."

"The general just likes to discuss the battle situation with his corporals. Is there a problem with that?"

O'Connor rolled her eyes. "Are you alright?"

"It's alright." Joseph sat down on the grass. "Is there anything to eat?"

"A cookie." Tom handed one over.

Joseph took it, took a bite, and found it as hard as a rock.

Someone started singing in the camp. It was a country tune. I don't know who started it. The voice was lazy and very casual.

The German troops are to the north. They'll leave in three days.

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

By the evening of the following day, the German front lines experienced their first noticeable wavering.

On the morning of the third day, the reconnaissance reports from various units were gathered on Hill's desk, all concluding that the German army had moved north as a whole on the north bank of the Marne River, and that some units of the First Army had withdrawn to the Eisner River.

Hill stood in front of the map, looking at the locations of the marked flags, without saying a word.

"Sir," the staff officer began, "just as you predicted..."

"This wasn't what I expected," Hill said, then offered no further explanation. "Advance across the board and clear out the remaining German forces. Send that platoon from the 4th Battalion to clear out the village of Merren; intelligence says there are still German remnants holding out there."

"Fourth Battalion, Company A, 2nd Platoon?" the staff officer confirmed.

"Yes, Lyndon's men."

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

Joseph drew the map of Murren Village by lying on the grassy slope and feeling it out himself with binoculars.

The village is built on a low, gentle terrace, with stone houses and red tiles. A main street runs through it from north to south, with houses on both sides and a few shops between them.

Normally, this is a quiet, even boring, rural area.

Things are different now—some windows are blocked with sandbags, some corners have extra burlap sacks, and in the middle of the main street, there is a reinforced low stone wall, positioned to control the passage of the entire street.

The German troops were few in number, but their deployment was quite good.

Joseph put down the telescope and went over the plan in his mind.

This tactic has a name, but no one has given it one yet—we'll have to wait another three years, until 1917, when the Germans on the Western Front develop their ultimate strategy, before someone can systematize it and write it into regulations, calling it the Storm Strike Tactic: Smoke or firepower suppresses the front, small squads infiltrate from the flanks or weak points, using shock and confusion to end the battle before the enemy can react.

It is 1914. There are no regulations, no names, and no manuals that will teach you how to fight this way.

But he knew.

He turned around, his back to the village, and looked at the faces lying on the grass.

O'Connor, Tom, McDonald, Wilkins, Ross, and four other recruits.

"That two-story building in the middle has a machine gun in the left window on the second floor. The muzzle is facing south, directly towards our path, which is a problem."

O'Connor spat out the grass stalk she was chewing. "How many people?"

"Uncertain. There are two operators; someone might reload later."

"distance?"

"110 yards, there's a corner of the wall on the right side of the window frame, the angle isn't good."

O'Connor squinted at it. "It can be compressed."

"You don't need to kill them," Joseph said. "Just make sure they don't dare to look up or look out. Go to that low-lying area on the left, there's a raised mound of earth there, you can see the second-floor window. I'll give you a signal, then you start firing until I tell you to stop, or until you feel it's unnecessary to fire anymore."

"clear."

“MacDonald,” Joseph turned his head, “there’s a stone wall on the north side of the village, surrounding some kind of garden. The wall is about three feet thick, ordinary limestone, and looks quite old. Could you make a hole in there?”

McDonald didn't speak, but glanced in that direction. After a few seconds, he nodded. "Yes."

"Just make a hole big enough for one person to crawl through, it doesn't need to be big." Joseph paused for a moment, "The sooner the better, because the gunfire will be intense over there, and we have to get in before they can react."

"I know."

"Tom."

Tom looked up, his usual serious expression on his face.

"Keep an eye on the alleyway to the right of the main street. There's a shadow in the corner there; I reckon someone's hiding there. If someone peeks out, push them down. Don't kill them, just keep them there."

"clear."

Joseph glanced one last time at Wilkins, Ross, and the four recruits. "The rest of you, follow me. Go along the north ridge, close to that stone wall. Single file, don't huddle together. Listen to my commands, don't move without them."

"Alright, spread out and take your positions. Wait for my signal."

The crowd dispersed.

Joseph lay back down in the grass, raised his binoculars again, and used his tactical instincts to confirm the key positions once more.

He counted the figures of people present.

Three on the first floor. Two on the second floor, machine gun positions. Four behind the low wall on the main street, probably riflemen. Two in the alley on the right, one with a gun, and the other... smoking.

Eleven; he had ten men under his command.

Not bad.