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Winter, 1922 (Aurelian Standard), No Man's Land, Western Veldenmark.
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Once, the western part of Veldenmark was a paradise on Earth. Lush, sprawling grasslands stretched as far as the eye could see, making it the rich heart of the livestock industry. Various types of animals—cattle of diverse breeds, thick-fleeced sheep, magnificent horses, even mighty buffalo—grazed peacefully in the green pastures. The fresh scent of grass mingled with the calming aroma of earth, and the sound of cattle bells blended with the birdsong. No wonder, before the war, countless tourists from across the continent came simply to enjoy this pastoral panorama, watching herds of livestock released from their pens in the morning, enjoying fresh grass under the blue sky.
But now....
"Charge!"
"Uaaaaahhhhh!"
In that same place, once filled with life, now only waves of people surged from labyrinths of defensive trenches, screaming war cries as loud as possible, tearing through the cold, gray air. The once-lush green expanse had transformed into a barren no man's land, full of mud, tangled barbed wire, and most horrifyingly—scattered bodies of lifeless men. The smell of gunpowder, blood, and wet earth pierced the nostrils. In this arid expanse, the only living creatures daring to appear were flies swarming over corpses and fat carrion-eating crows.
"ARGGHHH!"
"MY EYES!"
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, SOLDIER!? DON'T STOP ATTACKING, OR YOU'LL BE SITTING DUCKS!"
Wave after wave of Noirval soldiers, in military blue uniforms faded by mud and dust, ran charging towards the enemy trenches. They were the same troops who had successfully counter-attacked at the Battle of Velmure a year earlier, but now they faced a different kind of hell. The roar of machine guns from the trenches ahead spewed hot lead relentlessly, mowing down their ranks like stalks of wheat. Many collapsed, falling motionless like sacks of grain, their bodies shaking for a moment before going still.
Not only were they hammered by intense machine-gun fire, but successive artillery shell explosions also flung many Noirval soldiers into the air, transforming the ground into geysers of mud and fragmented bodies. Explosion after explosion shook the earth, tearing eardrums, and filling the air with desperate screams. No wonder, many of them, in shock and fear for their lives, abruptly stopped and hid in gaping holes in No Man's Land—seeking shelter from the ceaseless rain of death.
Every second was a gamble for survival. The air was filled with the coppery smell of fresh blood and the faint stench of recent death. Overhead, sniper bullets whistled like whispers of doom, piercing skulls with a sickening crack.
They ran, fell, and rose again, gasping for breath amidst the choking smoke and dust. Their feet churned through thick mud, laden with boot prints, remnants of barbed wire they'd just trodden upon, and the corpses of fallen comrades. Every meter gained felt like a small victory, yet every meter also had to be paid for with lives.
In the distance, the enemy trenches appeared unyielding, as if they were impenetrable stone monsters. Their machine-gun fire continued, spitting tongues of flame clearly visible in the encroaching darkness of the battlefield. Every time one of them fell, dozens more would advance to take their place, driven by burning desperation and the conviction that every step forward was a step towards freedom, towards a homeland no longer cut off from the sea. This was not just a battle; this was a fight for existence. This wave of people would continue to push forward, to their last breath, until those trenches crumbled, or until no one was left to advance. This was the eternal hell of trench warfare, where the same ground continuously absorbed the same blood, without end.
* * *
Behind the defensive line, within the narrow, damp trenches—where large rats scurried between mud and scattered ammunition remnants—the Felsburg soldiers breathed a sigh of relief. The smell of gunpowder and wet earth still stung their nostrils, but the intensity of the recent Noirval assault felt like a nightmare that had just ended, far exceeding previous bombardments. Some enemy soldiers had even managed to infiltrate their defensive trenches, but fortunately, luck was still on their side; the breach was successfully sealed. Finally, seeing the heavy casualties on their side, Noirval's officers ceased their attack.
Nevertheless, the Felsburg command never anticipated Noirval would launch an attack in the biting cold of winter. However, after this fierce battle, the officers surmised that the assault was a final desperate attempt before Noirval completely halted any operations during winter.
"How careless," the Felsburg military officers muttered at various command posts. Their thoughts—which had just been planning a counter-attack to seize Noirval's trenches, given the enemy's high casualty count from the previous assault—now shifted. However, the plan was canceled when news arrived: Noirval's reserve forces had been pulled back from the second trench to stand by in the main trench.
However, behind that small victory, another tragedy was unfolding. A tragedy colder than winter itself.
"....So, this many today?"
"That's right, Captain..."
Amidst the Felsburg troops busy cleaning up the post-battle chaos, a middle-aged man in a Felsburg military uniform, bearing the attributes of at least a 1st llieutenant that leading a company unit, was seen commanding his men. He was Hans, Paul's former trusted adjutant, and one of the few soldiers who survived the rearguard battle in Velmure. His extensive experience and his survival in that deadly battle earned him a promotion. However, his presence on the frontline at 56 years old showed just how difficult the situation for the Felsburg Army had become—the human resource shortage was already severely felt, forcing veterans like him to continue fighting.
"This situation is getting worse and worse," Hans said, his face clearly etched with worry.
The situation Hans referred to was the sight before him: lines of soldiers somewhat disheveled, their faces pale and full of despair. They were the soldiers caught attempting to desert during the recent battle. This was no longer just an individual case; every day, desertion reports piled up, eroding morale from within, like a cancer consuming the army's body.
"I agree, Captain. General Staff orders us to use soldiers efficiently and not want field officers to waste soldiers' lives, but on the other hand, we are required to execute deserters like them. It's truly ironic," replied Walter, Hans's young adjutant who had only recently arrived at the battlefield a few weeks ago, recruited from Felsburg's southern province.
"What can we do? Orders are orders. There's nothing we can do."
"But, Captain, I hope at least the General Staff does something to address this problem."
"For that, I agree, Walter."
They could only resign themselves to the increasing problem of desertion. They themselves weren't too surprised, because if one experienced this horrifying hell or this trench war, any normal person would, of course, want to flee from such a terrifying situation.
Amidst their complaints, Hans noticed something. "Walt, who are those four?" he asked, pointing to a group of deserters who had just been dragged in.
"Ah, they're from the 4th Company led by First Lieutenant Helmut."
Hearing the name, Hans frowned. "Again?" Hans closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Lieutenant Helmut—a young officer who was actually experienced, even having participated in last year's invasion operation. However, he was too gentle, couldn't bring himself to, and didn't have the courage to execute deserters from his own unit. Because of this, he often sent these deserters to Hans's 3rd Company, to be executed alongside deserters from the 3rd Company. Initially, Hans didn't care much, but the more frequently Helmut did it, the more Hans began to feel slightly disturbed, and finally genuinely annoyed. It wasn't just an additional burden; it was a silent admission of leadership weakness, a loophole that anyone could exploit if it were discovered at battalion HQ.
"Walt, after this, deliver my message to First Lieutenant Helmut."
"Understood, Captain, what's the message?"
"Tell him this is the last time. I understand his feelings, but he has to start facing his own problems, because this could get him into trouble if battalion HQ finds out about his actions."
"....Understood, Captain, I will deliver it."
"Good, now let's get this over with."
Hans then ordered the other soldiers to find cloths to blindfold and tie the hands of the deserters. According to Walter's report, at least ten deserters were to be executed, including four from the 4th Company. The six deserters from Hans's own unit were believed to have tried to cooperate to escape during the battle that had just ended. Somehow they planned to escape, but their plan failed even before they could flee the trenches.
The ten deserters were forcibly dragged by the soldiers who would also form their firing squad. Many of them simply resigned themselves, there was not much they could do but wear desperate faces towards the death that would soon claim them. One of them, a blond-haired young man who had laughed heartily just a week ago upon receiving a letter from home, now trembled violently, his thoughts drifting to the smell of his mother's cooking that he would never taste again. The trousers of some of them were visibly wet—anyone who saw it knew the reason.
What was worse, soldiers in the surrounding area, who had previously been busy clearing up the chaos from the recent battle, stopped for a moment. Their eyes were inevitably drawn to the ten deserters lining up, blindfolded and hands tied behind their backs with makeshift white cloths. Many of the watching soldiers were tense, fearing that the same could happen to them. Sympathy was also visible on the faces of some soldiers who felt pity, but they also knew that there was nothing they could do to stop it. They knew that on this frontline, humanity often had to be buried for the unit's survival.
Hans himself was aware that the surrounding soldiers had stopped their duties to witness what was about to happen, but he allowed it. A spectacle like this was indeed intended as an example, so that other soldiers would know what would happen if they were caught attempting desertion. It was cruel, but military organizations were known to be harsh from the start, let alone during wartime where humanity became the last item on the list. Hans himself wondered, how many more 'lessons' would they have to give before all soldiers turned into mere machines?
After the necessary preparations were complete, Walter walked before the deserters carrying a piece of paper. He unfolded it and began to read aloud before the watching soldiers:
"According to Article 13 of the Felsburg Military Code:
Any soldier who deliberately abandons his post in the face of the enemy, or retreats without orders, or in any way attempts to flee the battlefield or legitimate military duty, shall be considered a deserter.
Such actions are not only a violation of the oath of loyalty to the Great Erzregen and the Kingdom of Felsburg, but also a betrayal of fellow soldiers and the nation.
Desertion, in times of war, will weaken troop morale, jeopardize military operations, and directly threaten the safety of all soldiers on the front lines. Therefore, violation of this article shall be punishable by death by firing squad, without exception, as an example to all who dare to tarnish the honor of this uniform."
After reading what was on the paper, Walter folded it back and put it in his pocket—most likely the paper would be used again in the future. A disgusting routine, he thought, but he still performed it.
Silence fell after the reading of the Military Article. To follow regulations, Walter finally asked the deserters, "To the deserters, are there any last words you wish to speak?"
Silence returned after Walter asked the question, the deserters seemingly struggling even to breathe.
"I....I...."
One of the deserters began to speak something, though he stammered heavily.
"Please forgive me! It was all his idea! I was just forced to go with him!" the panicked soldier screamed, pointing to the deserter next to him. Although his eyes were covered, he knew who was nearby.
"Wh-what!? You liar, wasn't this all your idea!?"
The two deserters began furiously blaming each other. As their panicked voices echoed, the other deserters also started shouting, either begging for forgiveness or joining in the mutual accusations.
"Major! Forgive me! Please, I have a wife and two daughters waiting for me, Major!"
"I won't do it again, Major! I promised Alene I'd marry her after the war ends!"
"Mother, forgive me!"
One by one, the deserters who had previously been silent and unresponsive began screaming for mercy, still hoping to live—a truly horrifying chaos, a peak of human despair. The soldiers witnessing the tragedy could only bow their heads and close their eyes, unable to bear seeing their comrades-in-arms meet such a terrible fate. For them, every pleading voice was a reflection of the fear they hid within themselves, the fear that they too, one day, might reach their limit.
Even the hands of the firing squad began to tremble as they held rifles meant for killing enemies. Ironically, what they were doing was killing men wearing the same uniform, speaking the same language, from the same country. The firing squad itself was often rotated because many previous shooters had fallen in battle. So, perhaps the current firing squad had never performed this duty at all, and the faces they were about to shoot were faces they might see in a mirror—a reflection of themselves.
Seeing the situation spinning out of control and fearing it would worsen, Hans finally barked his command, "READY!"
At first, the firing squad hesitated, until they reluctantly obeyed their Major's order. If they refused, who knew if they would share the same fate as the men they were about to shoot. With that, ten rifles clicked in unison. The sound echoed, accompanied by the screams of the deserters begging for mercy.
"AIM!"
The muzzles of the rifles were truly aimed at the deserters. The pressure seemed to shake them, as their screams became even more intense and worse than before.
"I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" one voice shrieked, loud and desperate, as if the universe itself heard his final plea.
"ALENE, I LOVE YOU!" another cried, his lover's name becoming his last uttered prayer.
"I WILL FIGHT HARDER FOR FELSBURG, MAJOR!" another's plea, trying to beg for forgiveness with a futile promise of loyalty.
"MOM!"
"FIRE!"
After the command to fire was given, the rifles discharged almost simultaneously, causing the deserters' bodies to fall limply in succession. The sounds that had previously filled the area vanished, replaced by a heavy silence.
However, just when everyone present thought it was over, they heard groans of pain from among the pile of dead deserters. It seemed, perhaps due to the intense atmosphere earlier, one of the shooters lost concentration, and his shot missed the heart of one deserter, hitting his neck instead. The suffering, that faint shriek, was like an unyielding echo of the chaos that had just ended.
"Argh.....argh...errhhh..."
Seeing the dying deserter clutching his profusely bleeding neck, Hans finally approached him, drew his pistol from its holster, and shot him directly in the heart, ending his suffering. His eyes, though filled with exhaustion, showed no hesitation. He simply did what had to be done—an act forced upon him, yet tinged with the last compassion he could offer.
After doing so, Hans turned back and said to his unit, "Lesson over. Continue your duties; that way you can rest afterward."
The soldiers then resumed their respective tasks, which had been interrupted. However, amidst the returning activity, Hans could only stand among the lifeless bodies, and a question emerged in his mind. This was not just about desertion, not just about punishment. This was about how far they would be pushed, how much they they could sacrifice before the true destruction arrived. He looked up at the dark sky, wondering if this war would turn them all into soulless executioners.
"How long will this continue?"up