The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

Joseph was adjusting the prism angle, not even looking up: "Servant. You know that too."

“I mean,” O’Connor paused, “which servant’s manual did you learn how to make a sight?”

Joseph stopped what he was doing, looked up, stared intently at O'Connor for a second, and then said slowly, "The gentleman in the manor likes mechanical watches. I often repair his watches."

O'Connor stared at him for a long time.

You're lying to me.

"Yes." Joseph said without changing his expression, and lowered his head again to adjust the prism. "But why do you care so much? Anyway, the thing works."

O'Connor was silent for a moment, then walked in, sat down beside him, and picked up a piece of scrap copper to start fiddling with.

"Fine," he said resignedly, "whatever."

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

The first batch of bulletproof vests was completed at the end of February.

Joseph laid them out on the table and had O'Connor, Tom, McDonald, and several other veterans try them on first, walking around with their gear to make sure they didn't hinder movement. Then he distributed the remaining canvas and metal plates to the entire platoon, announcing:

"Do it yourself. If you can't, come to McDonald and he'll teach you."

Tom raised his hand: "Will this stop a bullet?"

"It can't stop frontal attacks," Joseph said frankly, "but it can stop shrapnel and stray bullets."

"What's the use of that?" Tom asked, puzzled.

Joseph glanced at him and said slowly, "Tom, the terrain on the other side of the Somme is different from before. It's an open area, the shelling will last a long time, and the density of bullets will be very high. Many casualties won't be from being hit head-on, but from shrapnel falling from the sky and getting stuck in the neck or waist. Those things come without direction, but they're not very fast—this," he patted his vest, "can stop those."

The scene fell silent for a moment.

Tom lowered his head, picked up a piece of canvas, and silently began to sew.

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

In early March, Wilson showed Joseph a summary of the camp's intelligence—through informal channels, the kind passed under the table.

The summary contains several sets of figures representing the General Staff's estimated casualty ratios for the Somme offensive: Our side, low; German side, high.

Joseph looked at the paper for a long time, then folded it and returned it to Wilson without saying a word.

He knew what those numbers meant. The projected figures were impressive, logically sound, and impeccable on paper—and they were an order of magnitude different from actual history.

July 1, 1916, the first day of the Battle of the Somme.

The number of British soldiers killed and wounded that day will, in posterity, become the record for the highest number of casualties in a single day in the history of the British Army, bar none.

He closed his eyes.

Then open your eyes.

What can he do?

He couldn't stop the battle. He didn't have the power or the authority; he was just a sergeant in a company of the 17th Infantry Division. His voice wouldn't reach Haig's ears, the staff office meeting room, or the colonels and brigadiers drawing arcs on maps with their batons.

He couldn't stop the machine from running.

But he did everything he could.

He spread out the paper, picked up a pen, and wrote a few words on it: "Recommendations for Topographical Survey of the Somme Section and Key Points of Infantry Advance Tactics".

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

As he was writing late into the night, O'Connor came to him and said that Tom's bulletproof vest was sewn crookedly, and asked if he wanted him to take a look.

Joseph put down his pen, rubbed his hands together, stood up, and went out with him.

In the trench, Tom was worrying about the bulletproof vest. The metal sheet was sewn onto the outside, causing a bulge that was uncomfortable to wear.

McDonald bluntly pointed out, "Look at the back, it's crooked over there too."

Tom was greatly aggrieved: "I'm not a tailor!"

Joseph squatted down, unfolded the vest, quickly untied the crooked stitches, sewed it neatly again, and handed it back to Tom.

Tom put it on, took a couple of steps in the trench, turned around and asked, "Does it really work?"

Joseph glanced at him.

In the torchlight of the campsite, Tom's face looked honest, young, and carried a hint of inexplicable anticipation.

Joseph said, "It really works."

Tom grinned.

Joseph turned his head and looked north.

There was no moon in the night sky, but along the entire battle line, there were intermittent arcs of artillery fire, like fireflies, like stars, yet unlike anything beautiful, just pure fire and iron.

To the north lies the Somme River.

The night breeze there is cooler than here.

"Alright," Joseph said, "go to sleep."

He returned to the shelter, sat down, spread out the stack of draft paper again, and continued writing under the lamplight.

The wick flickered slightly.

Three months later, the muddy ground of the Somme will resound with the most intense artillery fire in history. Hundreds of thousands of people will rush out of their trenches, machine guns will rattle across the open fields, and some will fall and never get up again.

That battle will be written into every book about World War I in later generations to describe what a "meat grinder" and "industrialized slaughter" are.

Joseph picked up his pen, flattened the stack of papers, and continued writing.

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

One morning, Brigadier General Hill called Joseph into his tent, flipped through the stack of papers he hadn't finished writing, and finally closed the papers and looked up.

"Next week, you will give a tactical lesson to your entire battalion, and you will only need to cover the content in this book."

"Yes, sir."

Brigadier General Hill pushed the stack of papers back and turned to look at the map.

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

O'Connor had two notable traits: he was an unparalleled marksman and couldn't keep his mouth shut.

He was chatting with some veterans from Company B in the mess hall when he casually mentioned, "Our sergeant is going to give a tactics lesson to the whole battalion." The next day, the news spread throughout the entire camp, with each version becoming more and more outrageous. The final version was:

"Sergeant Linden has developed a method that allows people to walk in front of machine guns without dying."

This version spreads faster than any command.

Before Brigadier General Hill could formalize the matter, there was one procedural matter that needed to be handled first.

It's not reasonable for a sergeant to teach tactics to an entire battalion.

There are officers in the camp, including sergeants with far more seniority than Joseph. Why should they listen to a sergeant?

Brigadier General Hill signed a provisional commission, granting Joseph the rank of Warrant Officer.

For an ordinary soldier without a noble background, becoming a warrant officer is the highest he can reach in the army. And usually, it takes fifteen to twenty years of hardship and toil in the fires of war, until his hair turns white, before he can finally earn that commission.

The letter of appointment included a note stating that the appointment would remain in effect until the end of the Somme offensive, at which point it would be confirmed or revoked based on battlefield performance.

On a sunny morning in mid-March, the entire battalion assembled—three companies, an attached engineer platoon, and an artillery liaison group—all gathered at the rear of the camp on a vacant lot that had been plowed by artillery shells several times and was now pitted and uneven.

Joseph stepped out of the crowd, stood in the middle of the open space, and opened the notebook in his hand.

The whole place fell silent.

"Okay," he said, his voice not loud, but clearly carried in the open space, "I'd like to ask everyone a question first."