The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

Exeter, at noon.

The town is small, with only one main street lined with stone buildings and wooden houses. It's usually very quiet; except for market days, you can hardly see anyone on the street.

But today is different.

The main street was packed with people.

Most of them were young men, between eighteen and thirty years old, dressed in all sorts of clothes: some were workers' coarse cloth shirts, some were farmers' overalls, some were shop assistants' vests, and a few were middle-class youths in respectable suits.

They gathered in the center of the square, where a makeshift recruitment booth had been set up.

A huge poster hung on the stage:

"The country needs you!"

On the poster, Count Kitchener is dressed in military uniform, pointing at the audience with a stern and determined look.

Below are the recruitment requirements and slogans:

Age: 18-30 years old

Height: at least 5 feet 3 inches

Physically healthy and without disabilities

Weekly pay: 7 shillings

Service period: End of the war or three years (whichever comes first).

"For brave little Belgium!"

"Defend Belgian neutrality!"

"Punish the German invaders!"

"A triumphant return before Christmas!"

Joseph looked at the slogan "Defend Belgium" and sneered inwardly.

Belgium certainly needed to be defended; the German army had indeed violated the 1839 Treaty of London and infringed upon Belgium's neutrality.

But the real reason Britain entered the war was not any international treaty, but the threat of German unification of the European continent.

To put it more bluntly: if Germany occupied the Belgian coastline, it would be tantamount to setting up cannons on Britain's doorstep.

But you can't write "We must maintain our hegemonic status" on the poster; you have to find a reason that sounds noble.

Thus, "poor little Belgium" became the perfect banner.

**********

Joseph and Tom squeezed into the crowd.

There were a lot of people.

That's not surprising.

During the period following the outbreak of war, the whole of Britain was gripped by a frenzy of enlistment.

Posters were plastered all over Kitchener, newspapers carried news of "victories" from the front every day, and in churches, pastors called on young people to "fulfill their responsibilities to God and the King" during their sermons.

For men in low-level professions like male servants, the pressure of joining the military is even greater.

Imagine this: the young master of the family has already put on his military uniform and gone to the front line, while you are still scrubbing toilets in the manor. What will people think of you?

Radical women on the streets have begun giving "white feathers"—a symbol of cowardice—to young men who are not in military uniform.

Moreover, for young people who had spent their entire lives doing heavy manual labor in the rigidly hierarchical manor, joining the army was like a door to a new world: a stable salary, opportunities for adventure, and even the possibility of promotion.

So in the first few months of the war, tens of thousands of male servants resigned to join the army.

Many manors, unable to find male servants, had to start employing women to fill the vacancies—something unimaginable in the past.

The sounds of conversation rose and fell around them:

"I heard the first batch of troops has already gone to France, and the battle is going very well!"

"My cousin is in the navy, and he said the Germans are no match for him!"

"I want to join the cavalry, charging into battle on horseback—how impressive!"

"Stop dreaming. Cavalrymen need to know how to ride horses. Are you even capable?"

"Then I'll be an infantryman. It's all the same; I can get medals anyway!"

The procession moved forward slowly.

Joseph and Tom waited in line for almost an hour before it was finally their turn.

Across from him was a veteran in his thirties, his eyes cold and professional. He looked Joseph up and down.

"Name?"

"Joseph Lyndon".

"age?"

"nineteen."

"Profession?"

"Maid."

The sergeant raised an eyebrow, looking at him with a subtle hint of disdain: "A male servant? Where do you work?"

Exeter Estate

"Oh." The sergeant noted on the form, "That earl's family. What skills do they have? Horse riding? Driving? Repairing?"

This is a crucial issue.

Joseph knew that in this era, the type of soldier was often determined at the recruitment station.

If the recruitment office you walk into has a sign that says "Royal Field Artillery," you sign up and become an artilleryman. If you come from a factory, all the workers in the factory sign up together, and you'll all be assigned to the same "friends battalion."

Cavalry was a special case—in 1914, cavalry was still considered an "aristocratic branch of the military." If you could ride a horse yourself, especially if you could bring your own horse, you were more likely to be assigned to the cavalry or volunteer cavalry units.

But Joseph was not a nobleman and did not have his own horse.

"I can ride horses," he said anyway. "I learned at the manor; I can ride draft horses and draft horses."

The sergeant glanced at him, made a note on the form, but his tone was indifferent: "Got it. But right now the infantry is short-staffed, the cavalry is already at full strength. Go report to the infantry battalion first, and if cavalry is needed later, we'll pick from the infantry."

Joseph nodded, not disappointed.

He had expected this outcome.

In the training camp, he also had the opportunity to demonstrate his value and the chance to be transferred to a technical branch.

The key is to get in first, survive first, and then seek development.

"Take off your shirt so the doctor can examine you."

Joseph went into the tent next to him.

A military doctor sat behind a table, looking exhausted, clearly having already examined dozens of people.

Open your mouth.

Joseph opened his mouth.

"cough."

Joseph coughed.

"Take a deep breath."

Joseph took a deep breath.

The military doctor pressed on his chest with a stethoscope, and then examined his eyes, ears, and fingers.

"Alright." The medic checked a box on the form. "Height 5 feet 10 inches, weight 157 pounds, good health. Passed. Next."

The whole process took less than five minutes.

Joseph got dressed and walked out of the tent, holding the stamped form in his hand.

He recalled historical materials he had read in 2026: the conscription physical examination in 1914 had surprisingly simple standards. As long as you had two legs, two arms, and no obvious disabilities, you could basically pass.

No one checks your mental state, no one asks if you're fit for combat, no one cares if you'll break down during the first shelling.

Britain needs soldiers, a large number of soldiers, hundreds of thousands or even millions.

Therefore, the standards have been lowered again and again, and the process has become faster and faster.

As long as I can handle a gun, that's fine.

And so, he officially became a member of the British Army.

Tom also passed the medical exam, walking out with the same piece of paper, his face beaming with excitement:

"We're really going to be soldiers!"

"yes."

"Reporting in the day after tomorrow," Tom said. "I have to go back and pack my things... What about you?"

"Me too."

"Shall we go together?"

Let's go together.

The two walked out of the square, followed by a line of even more young people.

The entire square was filled with an atmosphere of excitement, like some kind of grand celebration, rather than sending people to the battlefield.

Joseph glanced back at the poster—Count Kitchener's finger was still pointing at the crowd, his gaze still stern.

Ironic.

The person who initiated the "volunteer recruitment" will die in a shipwreck two years later, without even seeing the end of the war.

Most of the young people attracted by his posters will die in the mud of the Somme, Verdun, and Passchendahl.

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

Exeter Estate, evening.

The news quickly spread throughout the entire manor.

Joseph and Tom enlisted in the army.

The reactions were polarized.

The young servants were filled with envy and excitement, and they all came over to ask for details:

Is it difficult to get a physical exam?

"Is the military pay really 7 shillings?"

"When are you leaving?"

"Can I come with you?"

The old servants, on the other hand, were worried and sighed:

"Two young people again..."

"I hope they can return safely."

"War, so many people go and never come back."

Clark's reaction was one of mockery.

At dinner time, he stood at the entrance to the servants' dining room, hands on his hips, and said in that characteristically sarcastic tone:

"I heard Lyndon and Foster are going to join the army? Ha, a manservant and a groom, both wanting to make a name for themselves?"

The servants around them stopped eating, and the atmosphere became somewhat awkward for a moment.

Joseph put down his spoon, looked up, and calmly looked at Clark: "Yes, sir. We've already registered."

"It's easy to sign up, but hard to survive," Clark sneered. "The battlefield isn't a stable, you can't just shovel horse manure and get away with it. Machine guns, cannons, bayonets—any of them can take your life."

"Thank you for reminding me, sir."

"I'm not reminding you, I'm stating a fact." Clark took a few steps closer, looking down at him. "Someone like you, how many days can you survive on the battlefield? A week? Two weeks? I bet you'll be crying and begging to come back in three days at most. Of course, that's assuming you're still alive."

The restaurant was completely silent.

Everyone looked at Joseph, waiting for his reaction.

The original owner would definitely bow their head, swallow their anger, or argue back with a flushed face.

But Joseph was not the original owner.

He slowly stood up, meeting Clark's gaze at him. His tone remained respectful, but there was a hint of coldness in his eyes:

"Mr. Clark, you're right, the battlefield is dangerous. But at least I'm going to fight for my country, for a great cause. That's better than staying on the estate, spending my life stealing Bordeaux from the cellar, skimming the servants' wages, and living a life of bullying the weak and fearing the strong, isn't it?"

Clark's face instantly turned bright red.

Suppressed laughter came from all around—several servants quickly covered their mouths, but couldn't help it.

Clark pointed a trembling finger at Joseph: "You...you dare..."

"I'm just stating the facts," Joseph interrupted him, retorting with Clark's earlier words, "and even if I do die on the battlefield, at least I'll die for something worthwhile. That's better than some people who live their whole lives only to leave behind a pile of empty bottles and a fake ledger."

"You!" Clark was so angry he couldn't speak, his face turning from red to purple.

After Joseph finished speaking, he ignored Clark. He picked up his plate and walked to the sink.

Clark was left standing there, his face ashen and his body trembling.

A soft clapping broke out in the restaurant—not open applause, but the suggestive sound of tapping on the table.

Tom leaned closer and whispered, "You've really offended him now."

"It doesn't matter," Joseph said, washing the dishes. "I'm leaving the day after tomorrow."