The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

The message arrived at the division headquarters at 3 p.m.

Brigadier General Brown looked at the German orders, stood in front of the map for about two minutes, and said nothing.

The staff officer translated, reading out every place name, every route, and every assembly point. The brigadier general's finger followed along on the map, finally stopping at the section of the Eisna River.

"Send a telegram," the brigadier general said. "Notify headquarters, notify the French Fifth Army that the German First Army is retreating. The route and timeline are here. Coordinate a pursuit immediately and block the Eisner River crossing—"

"Sir," a staff officer interjected cautiously, "what is the source of this intelligence?"

"4th Battalion, A Company, 2nd Platoon. Corporal Lyndon." He paused, as if confirming something, "It's him again."

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

The gunfire on the Marne River finally stopped.

Joseph stood by the ruined wall at the village entrance, leaning his rifle against the bricks.

"Stopped?" O'Connor emerged from behind the pile of rubble next to him, his hat askew and the dirt on his face dried and cracked into a grid pattern.

"It's stopped."

"It's really stopped? Or not just temporarily?"

Joseph exhaled a puff of smoke and looked north. That was the direction the German army was retreating in.

"The Germans ran away," he said. "They really ran away."

O'Connor was silent for a moment, then ripped off her hat and threw it on the ground.

"Damn it, they really got away!"

Just then, the familiar blue light screen lit up in Joseph's field of vision.

[Phase Quest: Battle of the Marne in progress...]

[Key events recorded: A surprise attack on the Little Moran River bridge forced the Germans to abandon seventeen heavy artillery pieces; documents regarding the First Army's retreat were intercepted. The village of Merren was mopped up.]

Overall Rating: A

[Points Reward: +3000]

Current total points: 3000

Current player ranking: Top 85%

The last line of text lingered in Joseph's eyes for a few seconds before disappearing.

The top 85%.

This means that 85% of the players have gone further or done more than him. He doesn't know where they are or what they are doing at this moment.

He recalled the notebook with Chinese characters tucked inside, and a slight chill ran down his spine.

"Now is not the time to think about these things," he thought to himself, swiping the screen aside. "Let's finish what's in front of us first."

A messenger rode up on horseback, covered in dust: "Brigadier General Hill wishes to see Corporal Joseph Lyndon."

O'Connor leaned closer: "What rank will you bring back? Second Lieutenant? Buy me a drink when you get back."

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

The division headquarters was located in a half-ruined farm. Half of the roof of the main building had collapsed, and maps and reports covered the long table that had once been used to store hay. Brigadier General Hill stood in front of the maps, his back to the door, discussing something in hushed tones with two staff officers.

Joseph stood at attention and saluted in the doorway.

"Joseph Lyndon reports for duty."

Hill turned around and glanced at him.

"Sit down." Hill gestured to the chair next to him. "You two, get out."

The staff officers left. Hill didn't sit down; instead, he turned and pointed to a point on the map, speaking directly:

"Captured German maps, seized a bridge, German documents. Your name has appeared in three battle reports in the last two weeks." He paused. "You're just a corporal."

"Yes, Brigadier General."

Hill pressed his finger on a mark on the map, looking at him. "All the staff officers say the Germans will hold this position to the death. My intelligence officer says they still have at least three full-strength divisions to fight. You told me last week they would withdraw." His eyes sharpened. "Now I want to hear your explanation for that judgment."

This is a test question.

Joseph didn't look at the map. He simply stated the three unit numbers.

"Your Excellency Brigadier General, the logistics regiments of the 3rd, 9th, and 14th Infantry Divisions under the First Army Corps began burning excess fodder and unnecessary supplies six days ago." He paused. "A force prepared to fight to the death won't kill its own horses."

Hill's fingers froze on the map.

The room was silent for about five seconds. During those five seconds, Joseph could hear the distant sound of cannons outside and feel the wind seeping in through the hole in the roof.

"Where did you get these numbers?"

"Body from the battlefield," Joseph said, "captured documents, and some common-sense deductions." He didn't elaborate. Those who elaborate are often lying.

Hill stared at him for a long time.

"Before the war, were you really just a manor servant?"

"Yes, Brigadier General."

Hill was silent for a moment, then pulled out a chair, sat down, and for the first time, his tone became slightly...less businesslike.

"Alright." He picked up a document from the table and pushed it in front of Joseph. "From today onwards, Joseph Lyndon is promoted to sergeant."

Joseph took the document. "Thank you, Brigadier General."

“Don’t thank me.” Hill stood up. “You have the potential to be an officer, Lyndon. Stay alive—officials can be promoted from the ranks, not from the dead.”

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

In the afternoon, the troops began clearing the battlefield.

The so-called cleanup actually involved several groups of people.

The first group consisted of themselves—frontline infantry. As soon as the fighting stopped, they had to traverse trenches and rooms to check every fallen body, determining whether they were truly dead or feigning death, and gathering up the enemy's weapons, documents, and maps. Cigarettes and boots were also among the items collected; those above didn't say so, and those below pretended not to know.

Joseph saw an old soldier from the next platoon take off a pair of good German boots, tuck them under his arm, and walk away with an air of self-righteousness—his own boots had been soaked for days.

The second wave would arrive once the front lines had been pushed further away: specialized cleanup teams and labor camps, responsible for recovering everything usable, from large artillery wreckage to small shell casings.

When ammunition was scarce, even bloodstained uniforms were transported back to the rear for refurbishment.

As for the dirtiest jobs—filling trenches, moving corpses, and dismantling barbed wire—those were the jobs of labor camps, many of whom were reportedly conscripted from the colonies, including some Chinese laborers.

Joseph had mixed feelings about this, but that wasn't something to think about now.

His current task is to dig a hole.

Joseph, holding an entrenching tool, dug with McDonald in an open area on the east side of the village.

The soil was poor, mixed with gravel, making each shovelful a laborious task. The two didn't say much, just dug, occasionally glancing up at each other's progress before continuing.

The dead British soldiers had been laid out side by side on a canvas. Seven men, seven faces; Joseph recognized five of them.

Griffith, a Welshman, had a loud voice, loved playing cards, and never admitted defeat when he lost; Parker, from East London, had said he wanted to learn to drive after the war, calling it "the future." There were also three new recruits, less than three months into their service, whose names Joseph couldn't recall at the moment—they had arrived late and hadn't had a chance to become familiar with the area.

This made him feel a little guilty.

"Dig deeper," he told McDonald, "Don't let the rainwater seep in."

McDonald didn't say anything, but just shoveled the shovel again with force.

The dead German soldiers lay on the other side. Some people were sorting them, reluctantly, but doing so. Joseph went over and helped move a few bodies, then knelt down beside the corpse of a young soldier.

The man was very young, not yet twenty, with stubble on his face and a letter clutched tightly in his hand.

Joseph gently took the letter from his hand.

The envelope was soaked with sweat, and the words on the paper inside were faintly visible—the handwriting was rounded, and it was written by a woman.

He didn't open it. He put the letter back into his hands.

Then he saw something else. Right below the letter, also held in the corpse's hand.

Joseph froze the moment his hand touched it.

It's a lighter.

Made of brass, it is exquisitely crafted with a fine grid pattern on the surface.

This in itself isn't surprising—it's common for soldiers to carry these things. What is strange is the small line of text engraved on the side, neatly written in English:

"ZIPPO. Bradford, PA. Est. 1932."

1932 years.

Joseph squatted on the ground, staring at the lighter, feeling the hairs on the back of his head stand up one by one.

It is now 1914. This lighter will not exist for another eighteen years.