The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

The British artillery bombardment began before dawn.

The sound came from behind, over their heads, and towards the German troops.

One hundred and twenty meters away, on the German position, bursts of fire erupted one after another, plumes of smoke rose, and the morning mist was dispersed only to gather back again.

The shelling lasted for a long time.

During this time, Joseph leaned against the trench wall, counted the coverage density, calculated the approximate distribution of impact points, estimated in his mind the extent of damage to the German barbed wire, and whether this round of shelling would be enough to knock the two MG08s off their firing positions.

The numbers were clear, but what prevented him from keeping them clear was Allen to his left.

He lay prone next to Joseph for as long as the shelling continued, his face buried in the mud the whole time, his hands covering his ears, his shoulders trembling. With each volley of shelling, he trembled more violently.

Joseph glanced at his watch.

It's 5:20. There are still 20 minutes left.

He stood up and walked toward Lieutenant Buxton.

"Lieutenant," he leaned closer, "I heard the MG08s being tested last night along that line of trees on the German left flank. There were two, not just one. If we push forward in a straight line, the left flank will be directly exposed to angled fire, and the casualties will be terrible. I want to lead my squad, starting from the left flank crater line, to suppress those two machine guns first, opening up the flank for the main force to advance—"

"Unified advance, the order is unified advance," Buxton interrupted him. "Tactics are decided by the officers, Sergeant Lyndon."

Joseph glanced at him. The young lieutenant was impeccably dressed today, his uniform crisp, his hat pulled down neatly, displaying Sandhurst's impeccable grooming standards. In this trench, half a meter of water, he maintained a neatness that was hard to define as either bravery or bewilderment.

"Yes, Lieutenant, I understand."

He turned around and walked back to his class.

"Listen carefully," he crouched down, lowering his voice to the lowest octave, addressing the faces before him, "When the whistle blows, you won't rush in with the others. Wait ten seconds, wait for the other squads to leave, for the machine gun to find its target, wait for it to engage. Those ten seconds are our window of opportunity. Don't move in a straight line; the shell craters are your beds. Lie down and don't stand up. Wait for my signal." He paused. "Anyone who makes a rash move is out of the question. I don't have time to pull them back on the battlefield. They'll have to accept their fate."

O'Connor cocked his gun, a smirk playing on his lips. "Joseph, what you just said is that we should send someone else out to take the bullets for us."

"I'm saying, strike when the enemy's firepower is shifted."

"Sergeant," O'Connor said, "you have a really nice way of speaking."

Joseph didn't answer. He looked up at the top of the trench and then glanced at the watch in his hand.

Tom swallowed the half-eaten cookie with force, so forcefully that the veins in his neck bulged, and nodded. "Understood."

McDonald didn't say anything; he was already checking the equipment.

Then, the location of the cannon fire changed.

The artillery fire suddenly receded, crossing the first German trench and heading further back. For the first time, the ground within that 120-meter stretch fell silent.

The whistle blew.

The moment Joseph rolled over the edge of the trench, his first action wasn't to run, but to roll sideways into the shell crater to his left, mud and water splashing all over his face. Cold and bitter.

Using shell craters as cover to advance rapidly was something he learned from modern tactics manuals. In 1914, no soldier knew this tactic; their training consisted of only one thing—stand up and charge forward.

He didn't have time to think about it; he had already climbed to the edge of the crater to confirm the location, and then made a hand gesture.

O'Connor crashed in from the left, nearly hitting his leg. Mud splashed half his face. He opened his mouth to curse, but Joseph's gaze cut him off, and he mouthed the words silently.

McDonald followed him in.

Joseph glanced to his right.

Thirty meters to the right, the people from Class A were still on that open ground. Some were lying motionless in the shell craters, some were still crawling forward, and some were lying prone in front of the barbed wire, their legs still moving, but their upper bodies no longer moving—hooked by the barbed wire, or for some other reason. Joseph forced himself not to judge which reason it was.

A soldier stood up and ran forward desperately. He ran about five steps when a bullet swept past, his body spun to the right like a scarecrow blown by the wind, and then he fell down and never moved again.

"Let's go," Joseph forced himself to look away. "Next crater, I'll go out. O'Connor will cover the left flank, and McDonald will keep an eye on my side."

He glanced at the rhythm on the left wing—the gap was almost here.

"Three, two, go!"

He flipped over, zigzagging his way around, staying in the same spot for no more than three seconds.

The machine gun's arc swept past him, bullets hitting the mud with a dull thud. He heard it, but he had already fallen into the second crater. Muddy water poured down his neck, making him gasp.

Twenty meters behind me, someone was screaming in agony.

He didn't turn around.

He cannot turn back.

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

The third crater, the fourth, the fifth.

There was barbed wire ahead. The shelling had blasted a small opening in this section, just big enough for one person to squeeze through sideways.

As Joseph squeezed through, the wire tore his sleeve, but he didn't stop; he kept running forward, keeping his body low to the ground.

The edge of the German trenches was already in sight—there were people, guns, and a place he had to enter that day.

He jumped.

The moment he landed, a German soldier in front of him had just turned around when Joseph's rifle butt slammed into him, hitting his cheekbone, and the man fell to the side.

Gunshots rang out from the left, bullets hitting the trench wall and kicking up a chunk of mud. Joseph ducked to the side, rushed forward in two steps, and thrust his bayonet in. The enemy's hand was still gripping the gun, but his grip quickly loosened.

O'Connor jumped in, and before the German soldier in the corner could even aim his gun, O'Connor kicked it away. He cursed an Irish swear word, then punched the man, who fell silent. McDonald came in, glanced around, bent down to deliver a final blow, and stood up to dust himself off.

Tom was the last to jump in, landing heavily, his boots sinking into a pool of blood that hadn't yet seeped into the ground. He glanced down but said nothing.

This section is now clear.

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

After clearing three sections of trenches, Joseph's entire squad was present and no one was injured.

He stood in the trench, mentally updating the map of the German positions, confirming the location of the next section of the defensive line, then turned around and glanced back in the direction he had come from.

Just then, Buxton came in with his men.

The moment he stepped into the trench, Joseph recognized him, yet simultaneously couldn't—the impeccable neatness and confidence instilled in him by Sandhurst were gone. The uniform was still the same, the hat was still on, but the eyes held a different person's gaze. Joseph had seen that look before, on the face of everyone stepping onto the battlefield for the first time:

Broken.

Buxton entered, stopped, and glanced at the unharmed soldiers of Joseph's squad.

"How...did you get here?"

"They came over here," Joseph said. "Lieutenant, over there—"

"Don't ask," Buxton's voice was hoarse, "Don't ask, Lyndon."

Joseph did not ask any further questions.

He had Tom count the number of people Buxton brought in.

Eleven.

Thirty-seven went out, and eleven came in.

"Lieutenant," Joseph said, "we'll hold this position, you'll take command, but I'll handle the offensive tactics—if you agree."

Buxton looked up and stared at him for a long time.

Finally, he spoke up: "Linden, from now on, you'll handle the tactics."

Joseph nodded and turned around.

"All teams, take your positions. We're not finished yet."

"Let's go," O'Connor said, "it's better than counting dead people here."

McDonald was already in position. Tom's leg trembled, and he stood up. Buxton and his eleven men stood up one after another.

Joseph climbed onto the edge of the trench: "Stay close, don't walk in a straight line, give me your brains, and keep your legs for yourselves."