The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

After the gunfire in Newcherpel ceased, spring arrived.

The mud in the trenches had changed with the seasons, from frozen lumps to soft, mushy mud. McDonald said his boot soles were worn through, while O'Connor said he at least still had boots. Tom had grown a little taller, or perhaps just thinner, and looked taller. New recruits were coming in, and a few familiar faces were gone; no one specifically mentioned it, but everyone knew.

The fighting was intermittent, but without the major commotion seen in Newchapel.

Patrolling, digging, keeping watch, occasional firefights, occasional shelling—the days passed one by one.

Sometimes Joseph would think about Will's notebook, wonder if the letter had ever reached Salopshire, and what Susan Irving's expression would be when she opened the oil paper package. He received no reply, nor did he expect one.

In late spring, a deserter brought a message from the front lines.

The man's name was Evans. He used to be a worker at the Sheffield Steelworks. Last year, he was sweating profusely by the blast furnace. Now, he stood on the muddy ground of the 17th Division's temporary camp, trembling all over, with vacant eyes and purple lips.

He came running from the direction of Ypres.

He couldn't say how far he had run. He had two cuts on his legs, and his boots were soaked in mud, but he didn't feel any pain; perhaps he had long since become numb to pain.

The sentry at the camp gate stopped him. He gasped for breath, managed to utter a few words, and then could say nothing more.

"Poison gas...green..."

The army doctor wrapped him in a blanket, fed him hot tea, and waited for half an hour before he could finish speaking.

News spread quickly, with varying accounts, but the core story remained the same: the Germans had released large amounts of poison gas near Ypres, the yellowish-green smoke drifting with the wind across British positions. Those on the front lines had no time to evacuate; some suffocated in their trenches, others ran out only to fall in open areas, and some sections of positions reportedly fell entirely. Casualty figures were not yet confirmed, but it was clear to everyone that this was no small matter.

When Harris found Joseph, he was squatting in a clearing behind the trench, gesturing in the mud with a stick. O'Connor and McDonald sat nearby, one peeling hazelnuts he had picked from the roadside and eating them, the other idly whittling wood with a bayonet, while Tom dozed against a wooden crate, snoring with his mouth slightly open.

Harris stood in front of Joseph, paused for two seconds, and then repeated Evans's words verbatim.

Joseph stopped gesturing in the mud.

He put the stick down, looked up, and glanced at Harris.

"It's chlorine," he said.

The moment the words left his mouth, he felt a chill.

He knew about it. He had read about it in a book, heard it mentioned in a class, as a piece of history, as a number, as a footnote to a battle.

In April 1915, the German army used chemical weapons on a large scale for the first time in the Battle of Ypres.

He remembered the accompanying picture: yellowish-green smoke billowing over the trenches.

At that time, he thought he was just reading history.

Now history has crawled out from the pages of the book and stood before him.

"He didn't use that word. He said it was green smoke, smelled like bleach, and then people collapsed, some rolled on the ground, some ran, some..." Harrison paused, "and some coughed up blood."

O'Connor stopped peeling hazelnuts.

McDonald sheathed his bayonet.

Tom's snoring stopped, but he didn't open his eyes; he just perked up his ears.

"How many people died?" Joseph asked.

"I don't know, the information is still chaotic, and there are conflicting accounts." Harris's voice remained calm, but his jaw was clenched. "But our men got a really bad beating this time, all because of that cigarette."

The news of Ypres spread for several days, and like a stone thrown into water, the ripples subsided and the surface returned to calm.

Summer in the trenches passed both slowly and quickly. Slowly because each day felt like the last: patrolling, keeping watch, enduring artillery fire, digging. Quickly because when you looked back, the hazelnut trees had already borne fruit and shed their leaves, the north wind was beginning to carry a chill, and you realized that months had passed without you noticing.

The 17th Division changed its defense zone at the end of August, moving south from the north and settling near Los. This area is a mining region, with tunnel entrances and coal slag heaps scattered on the ground, black waste pressing down on the grass, and a few chimneys in the distance, it was unknown whether they were still in operation.

When digging trenches in places like this, the shovel often hits something hard—coal ash, which comes out black and you can easily get your hands covered in it if you're not careful.

The September wind, carrying a chill, blew in from the north, causing the tarpaulins at the trench entrances to flutter loudly.

The new message was delivered along with dinner.

What was called "dinner" was actually two transport soldiers carrying iron buckets, bending over, running along the trench to the front line, putting the buckets on the ground, and then taking out a stack of round tin cans from their backpacks and stuffing them into the hands of the people at the front.

When Joseph took it, the can was already cold, with a little mud on the tin. He wiped it with his sleeve, pried open the lid, and found chunks of brown cured beef inside. Someone nearby was heating the can with an alcohol stove; the small orange flame licked the bottom of the can, hissing and sending the remaining heat into the low, damp trench.

The trench was small, with seven or eight people crammed together, sitting with their backs against the trench wall, which was covered in damp mud. Occasionally, something would move in the cracks in the mud—a rat.

The transport soldier dusted off the mud from his clothes: "They said, number 25, use poison gas."

O'Connor stirred the soup in the metal bowl with her spoon, then looked up. "Poisonous gas? What kind?"

"Chlorine," the transport soldier gestured with his chin, pointing towards the German positions, "drift that way."

"Okay," O'Connor put down his spoon, "let those Germans have a taste too, so they don't keep putting it away."

A few people in the trench laughed along, saying they wanted to see for themselves what the Germans looked like when they were smoked out of the trench.

Joseph did not laugh.

He sat in the corner, holding the jar of cold cured beef in his hand. He didn't eat it, but just stared at the brown chunks of meat in the jar, his mind racing.

poison gas.

Battle of Los Angeles.

During the years he was a military history blogger, he studied the major battles of World War I no less than ten times. He even wrote a piece specifically about the Battle of Los Angeles. It was the first time the British army had used poison gas on a large scale, and they went in full of bravado—then the winds changed.

The poison gas has returned.

He remembered the figures in that article: 2,600 British soldiers were killed or wounded due to the poison gas they themselves released.

Now those 2,600 people are all around him, with names, faces, accents and habits. Some of them are in this trench, leaning against the same mud wall, eating the same pot of cold pickled beef that was brought from the rear.

This might include Tom, O'Connor, McDonald, Ross, and Wilkins.

Just then, a line of words appeared before Joseph's eyes:

[System Prompt]

[Phase Quest Released: The Los campaign is about to begin]

Objective: Eliminate as many enemy forces as possible while ensuring they are protected from biological attacks.

Joseph stared at the line of text for a while, then stood up.

I'm going out for a bit.

He turned and walked towards the camp.

He needs to make some preparations.