The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

The battalion commander was further back and could have ridden a horse faster, but Joseph didn't have a horse. He walked for nearly half an hour along the winding dirt road between the trenches and shell craters before finally reaching the temporary camp where Major Payne, the battalion commander, was located.

Several large tents were pitched on a patch of barely level field, surrounded by ammunition boxes and equipment. Field telephone lines were strung along the sides of the tents, and messengers moved between them.

The major, inside the main tent, took the memo and data, glanced at them, and turned to call Lieutenant Crawford, the staff officer beside him.

"Let's take a look."

Crawford looked at it for about twenty seconds and then said, "Major, this analysis is based on historical observation data from local weather stations, so its accuracy is limited. It is not an official weather report."

"I know it's not an official report," Joseph said, "but it's the most complete historical record I could get, and the data trends are real."

Crawford glanced at him and continued to the major, "The brigade headquarters has professional staff responsible for meteorological assessments, with a much higher accuracy than local station data."

"That would be even better," Joseph said. "Could the brigade staff obtain data from the Royal Meteorological Service and check the surface wind direction separately for the period between 6 and 8 a.m. on the 25th?"

Crawford slowly turned his head, his expression one of restrained indifference.

Major Payne paused for a moment between the two men, then spoke to Joseph:

"Linden, I understand your concerns. I will forward this report," he said. "But I have to be honest with you—the brigade headquarters won't change the overall plan because of a sergeant's data analysis. You should be prepared."

“Major, I’m not asking them to cancel the attack,” Joseph said. “I just want them to check this timeline. If the data proves me wrong, that’s the end of it, and you don’t need to worry about it anymore. But if—”

"Alright," the major interrupted him, "I heard you, I'll handle it."

He paused, then added, "Go ahead, Lyndon."

Joseph stood at attention, turned, and left.

As he stepped out of the tent, he overheard Crawford whispering half a sentence to the major: "...The sergeant came to camp to discuss the brigade-level weather assessment. If this door is opened..."

The canvas tent flap fell down, and the rest of the conversation could no longer be heard.

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

On the way back, he walked slowly, but he didn't stop.

When he was a blogger, he studied many battles, researched why those commanders failed, and studied why those mistakes that could have been avoided were not avoided—then he wrote them down and posted them online. In the comments, people would always say, "These commanders are really stupid," or "If I were in command, things would have been different."

That's what he thought back then too.

Now he's the only one who knows the right answer, but no one believes him when he says it.

The taste is quite hard to describe.

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

Los Angeles, September 25, 1915, 5:40 a.m.

It was still dark.

Thick fog pressed down on the trenches, shrinking the entire world into this stretch of mud and planks before our eyes.

Joseph sat against the trench wall of the bunker, a rifle on his lap. He wasn't asleep; his gas mask hung on a stake, within easy reach.

O'Connor was squatting across from me, using a twig to poke mud out of the seams of her boots, humming some Irish tune under her breath, not caring that the tune was off-key.

McDonald fell asleep against the wall, snoring softly and evenly.

Tom wasn't asleep; his eyes were open, staring motionless at the sandbags and planks above.

No one spoke.

At 5:50, Joseph stood up, walked to the entrance of the gun shelter, and looked out through the gap in the curtain.

The fog was still there, obscuring the barbed wire fence in front of them until only a shadow remained.

Wind direction: Southwest.

At 5:57, he withdrew his gaze and turned back.

"Everyone, stop hanging your masks on the wooden stakes, keep them in your hands."

O'Connor stopped humming, looked up, reached out and took the mask off the stake, holding it in her hand.

Tom sat up and picked up the mask.

McDonald was startled awake by the noise; before his eyes were fully open, his hand had already touched the mask.

The other people in the bunker also started moving one after another, and no one asked why.

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

Six o'clock sharp.

The whistle blew.

This was the signal to release poison gas, which was relayed from north to south along the British trenches, segment by segment.

The wind picked up; it was a southwest wind blowing from behind, moving from the British positions toward the German positions.

The release points at the rear began to operate. One after another, the valves of the steel cylinders were turned open, and compressed chlorine gas surged out, turning yellowish-green upon contact with air. It crawled forward along the ground, accumulating thicker and thicker, like a low wall, slowly pushing towards the German trenches.

Someone shouted from the trench, "It's gone! It's really gone! It drifted that way!"

Laughter erupted from the trenches, and some even clapped.

"Let the Germans have a good taste!"

Joseph stood at the entrance of the bunker, watching the yellow-green fog wall climb forward, his mask clutched in his hand.

He didn't wear it.

It's not time yet.

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

6:11.

The wind direction has changed.

Quietly, the entire airflow shifted a few degrees, then a few more degrees, and then even further—

The yellowish-green fog wall stopped midway and then swayed.

Then slowly turn around.

Joseph watched as the wall of fog began to turn around, and without saying a word, immediately spoke:

"mask!"

The sounds from inside the bomb shelter stopped.

In less than five seconds, everyone in the bunker was wearing masks. The straps were tightened, the goggles were pressed down, and no one spoke or hesitated.

He tightened the last strap of his mask and looked out through the rubber-sealed goggles.

The yellowish-green fog had crossed the no-man's-land and was beginning to spread over the British barbed wire.

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

At 6:13, on the left, the fourth company's artillery shelter.

"What does it taste like—"

"My eyes! My eyes—"

"Get out! Get out now—"

"We can't go out; it's even denser outside—"

"What should we do? What should we do—"

The soldiers huddled in the artillery shelter. Some covered their faces with their hands, some pulled up their uniform collars, some turned and rushed backward, some fell down, and some stepped on the fallen to keep running forward.

The platoon leader stood in the trench and shouted, but it was hard to hear what he was saying because he himself started coughing, and the coughing got deeper and deeper and he couldn't stop.

Chlorine gas doesn't discriminate based on person, rank, age, or whether it's their first time on the battlefield. It flows along the ground into trenches, into bunkers, and into all low-lying areas, and then it begins to work.

A soldier knelt down, his hands bracing against the mud wall, his back hunched, and a heavy, wet sound came from his throat.

The person next to him tried to pull him up, but after bending down to take a breath, he also knelt down.

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

At 6:13, on the right, Joseph's gun emplacement.

Twelve masked people stood there.

A thin layer of condensation formed on his goggles, but his vision was still fairly clear. Through the condensation, Joseph looked at the yellowish-green fog, at the indistinct barbed wire and the German trenches ahead, and listened to the shouts and coughs coming from his left, the sounds growing weaker with each passing moment.

"Everyone, check the seals, and count off from left to right."

"No problem." O'Connor.

"Second, no problem." McDonald.

"Three." Ross's voice was a little tense.

"Rose, push the right goggle in a little."

"...Okay, no problem."

"Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven."

Joseph glanced around and nodded.

"How's the left side now?" McDonald asked.

“You heard that,” Joseph said, “the coughing is getting less, but not because it’s getting better.”

Tom turned his head and looked at him.

"Should we still attack...?"

"I don't know," Joseph said. "We'll wait for orders from above."

No one spoke anymore.

The yellowish-green fog was still outside, and the coughing on the left had stopped, but the way it stopped made one afraid to think too deeply about it.

Twelve masked people stood in the bomb shelter, listening to their own breathing echo inside their rubber masks, waiting.