The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

When they returned to the trenches, most of the men had already come back.

Harris sat in the corner, holding a cup of tea, his face expressionless.

O'Connor said in a nonchalant tone, "I chatted with a German soldier for a while; he's pretty good at football."

"Better than you?" McDonald said.

"Screw you," O'Connor said, "you're about the same."

Tom took the spoon out of his pocket, examined it repeatedly, then clutched it in his hand and began to stare blankly. He had shaken hands with at least three German soldiers today, gesturing wildly as he talked for ages about Christmas in his hometown, though none of them really understood him, he spoke with great earnestness.

Joseph sat there, clutching the button.

He thought of Hans, of the three-year-old girl named Lina, of the smiling face in that black and white photograph—she must be in Berlin now, unaware that it is Christmas, unaware that her father played a football match with British soldiers that had no winner.

He was thinking about tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the sound of gunfire will ring out. Both sides will pick up their rifles again. The no-man's-land will once again become a death zone.

All of this will not change because of today's football match, nor will it change because of the two phrases "we are all human beings".

War is a massive machine that doesn't care about individual goodwill, doesn't care about today's Christmas truce, doesn't care about Hans's daughter, and doesn't care about the button in Joseph's pocket.

O'Connor suddenly spoke up: "Joseph."

"Um?"

“You said they were human too,” he said. “I used to… not believe that. I thought, who cares about ethnicity, war is war.” He paused. “But today… that German soldier, he kicked the ball back to me.”

Joseph looked at him.

"I know," he said. "I saw it."

"Damn it," O'Connor said, "what do you mean by this?"

“Let’s count people,” Joseph said. “Let’s count people.”

O'Connor, unusually, remained silent.

The next morning, a telegram was sent to the company headquarters.

Harris returned from the company commander's, his expression and voice unchanged. Standing in the middle of the trench, he spoke in his soldierly tone, unchanged for most of his life:

"Orders from above: No contact with the enemy. Resume combat readiness immediately."

He paused for a moment.

"Take your positions."

No one speaks.

The soldiers picked up their rifles, checked their magazines, and returned to their positions.

Joseph tucked the button into the inside pocket of his jacket.

In the eastern sky, the sun had just risen, and the sound of cannons could be heard in the distance.

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

That evening, the stand-up meeting had just ended, and it wasn't completely dark yet.

Most people in the company took the opportunity to relax and drink tea, but Joseph did not.

This afternoon, the battalion held a briefing, saying that there was no heavy firepower at the entrance to St. Cloud village, and that tomorrow they would advance head-on to capture the village.

Joseph knew the terrain at the village entrance; it was an open area with buildings on both sides, and the church bell tower stood high above, facing the road. He mentally reviewed the terrain and the map the camp had given him, and came to a conclusion: it was practically tailor-made for a Maxim machine gun.

The battalion commander's map indicated there was no heavy firepower there. But maps are static; gun barrels are dynamic.

He picked up the Zeiss binoculars—which he had captured from the Germans, and whose glass was more than twice as clear as the ones issued by the British Army—and walked along the trench to the right until he found the place he was looking for.

It was an abandoned old machine gun emplacement. Last month's shelling had blasted a section of the left trench wall, turning it into a dead end. Sandbags were piled up haphazardly, covered in a layer of mud and water, and it stank horribly. Normally, no one wanted to squeeze in there. But its orientation was tricky—it faced a side gap directly towards the village of Saint-Cloud, and the clock tower was right in sight.

Joseph tucked himself behind the sandbag pile, pulled his hat brim down, raised his binoculars, and peered through the gaps between the sandbags.

He didn't climb out of the trench. The sniper on the other side was a professional—they already knew that. Last week, Martinez was shot in the half-second he peeked out while trying to retrieve a hat that had rolled off the rampart, and he hadn't spoken since.

A sniper doesn't need to see the whole person; just an outline, a shadow, or anything that doesn't belong to the dirt and sandbags is enough.

The ramparts above are intact, so as long as you're not foolish enough to stick your head out, this place is safe—relatively safe. There's no such thing as absolute safety on the battlefield.

Then he switched the camera to the church bell tower.

The clock tower is fifteen meters high, made of stone. It must have been quite beautiful before the war, but now the cross on top is broken off and hangs askew. Joseph slowly adjusted the focus, scanned the clock tower in the shadows, and then stopped.

Something flashed there.

That's not ordinary reflection. The light is coming from the west at this moment, the angle is wrong, it can't be stone or metal. That's the refraction unique to glass lenses.

Joseph lay behind the sandbag for nearly twenty minutes, keeping his eyes fixed on that spot. The reflection appeared three times, about seven or eight minutes apart, with slight shifts in position. It wasn't a fixed reflector; someone was moving.

He memorized the location, angle, and frequency of occurrence, then stepped out of the sandbag pile, brushed the mud off his knees, and returned to his trench.

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

Joseph woke up two hours before dawn the next day.

He opened his eyes in the darkness, stared at the plank on top of the trench for a while, and then sat up.

O'Connor was huddled across from him, his hat pulled down to his nose, sleeping like a log. Beside him, McDonald leaned against the trench wall, his head drooping, a thin line of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth. Tom, in the far corner, clutched his rifle, rolled over, mumbled something, and then fell silent again.

Joseph glanced at them but didn't wake anyone.

Daylight broke, and the order came down.

The mission was divided into two parts: Lieutenant Alfred led the first platoon to advance from the front along the road, while Joseph's squad provided flank support from the east low wall, covering the front.

Joseph had read the paper three times, and he decided to go find Alfred.

Alfred was studying a sketch in the officer's bunker.

He was a little thinner than last year, and his face bore the marks of the sun and wind, but his posture remained the same—back straight, chin held high, his uniform always buttoned up to the last button. He looked like this when he left the manor, and hadn't changed a year after he went to the trenches.

Joseph lifted the curtain and went inside.

"Lieutenant, I have a question about today's advance route."

Alfred didn't look up. "Speak."

"That road in front is no good." Joseph stopped beside the sketch and pointed to the village entrance. "There's an open area here, about 120 meters long, with no cover. The Germans have observation posts in the church bell tower. As soon as your platoon enters this open area, they can immediately direct their fire, with machine guns on both sides creating a crossfire—"

How did you know there was someone on the clock tower?

"I went to check last night." Joseph paused. "There was a reflection on the top of the clock tower; it's the reflection from the telescope lens. Stand-to had it three times before, probably during shift changes."

Alfred then looked up and glanced at him.

Joseph continued, "I suggest advancing around the low wall on the east side, going an extra two hundred meters, but the whole way is covered. The German clock tower's view is blocked by the orchard, and the machine guns have no firing range."

Alfred paused for a few seconds, then turned his gaze back to the sketch: "The order is to advance from the front, Lyndon. I'll follow orders. You take care of your flanks."

His tone wasn't one of discussion; it was one of ending the conversation.

Joseph glanced at him, then turned and left.

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

Before setting off, Joseph pulled O'Connor aside.

"Keep an eye on the church bell tower later," he said.

O'Connor glanced at him sideways. "I thought we were playing a flank combination."

"We're flanking, but once the battle begins, you keep your eyes on the clock tower." Joseph redescribed the location, including the exact direction of the reflection. "If we engage in a frontal battle, we might have to change our plans."

"You spoke to that lieutenant?"

"I already said that."

Did he listen?

"no."

O'Connor didn't say anything. He put the cigarette in his mouth, struck a match, but didn't light it right away. He just held it in his hand and let it burn.

"Alright," he said, "then I'll keep an eye on the clock tower."