*Boom*
Whistling like death reapers calling to their prey, hundreds of shells rained down on the battlefield. Dirt, shrapnel, blood and bones scattered in all directions as visibility got reduced to zero for a few instances before the smoke-filled sky could be seen once again.
"Get up! We have to move before those suicidal vodka-fuelled Ivans swarm the line!"
"Damnit! I'm out of bullets! And they are still not out of people! What is this!"
"Huh?"
*Boom*
Silence returned to this small part of the trench, as the remains of the three individuals previously present rained back onto the earth.
In the heat of this historic battle that was part of one of the bloodiest conflicts involving almost all of the civilised world, a single man clutched his head as he read the transmission from headquarters.
'Hold the line at any cost…' James crumpled the piece of paper.
He was the son to an American Mother and German Father. He had lived in America till adulthood, away from the ravages of the first Great War. Upon reaching adulthood, spurred by the other young adults of German descent, he took up arms and returned to the defence of the Fatherland.
Only to be abandoned in the later parts of the war. He did not care for the crimes against humanity or whatnot the British came up with, what mattered to him was the frustration at clearly having technologically superior arms and armaments, they were losing to an enemy who was relying on human wave tactics and sheer numbers to drown them out, without any hope of a counterattack.
And the worst was the order given to him by his superiors, who were sitting in Berlin, enjoying a healthy breakfast while the soldiers here at the soviet frontline were dying in droves no just to the enemy, but to hunger, to disease, to themselves.
'Those cursed Nazi leaders! They went to war with the world over resources and the future of the nation… but in the process doomed that very nation…' James cursed under his breath as another volley of shells rattled the wooden bunker that could barely be considered underground.
*Rattle* *Rattle*
"Taaaanks! It's the bloody Soviets!" James overheard someone yelling from outside, and instantly, all the colour drained from his face.
He rapidly made a decision, and a solemn look took over his face.
Walking out of his bunker, he called his Staff sergeant. The man was bald and far older than himself; being a non-commissioned officer, he was also someone with far more battle experience than him.
Still, he listened to everything his commanding officer had to say, and only in private did he ever make his opinions known so as not to affect the reputation of the young man.
"I am making the order. Take all the men and retreat. There is no point in surrendering to those damned Ivans. You are better off taking your chances with the military police at the next line of defence. Tell them I gave the order, and here, keep this as proof," James handed a sealed letter to the stunned staff sergeant before putting on his hat and pulling out his officer's pistol.
It was a piece he did not like that much since its recoil was incredibly harsh and you had to put so much force into squeezing the trigger that you would often miss even at close distances. But it was all he had.
Turning back, he could see the retreating backs of his men, and a bitter smile appeared on his face as he saw his staff sergeant turn back to face him one last time.
No words were exchanged, not that anything would have been audible at that distance in the active battlefield. The two men simply nodded to each other, one a sign of trust to complete his assigned task and take the men to safety, and the other a mark of respect at someone willing to give up his life to save that of his men.
*Boom* *Rattle* *Rattle*
*Indistinct Russian in the distance*
James turned back to the top of the trench, from where the echoes of the damned Ivans could be heard over the rattling of their mass-produced tanks.
"Honour fades when blood runs thin," James put a hand and leg onto the ladder.
"And duty breaks where death steps in," he began his ascent onto the top of the trench.
"No flag, no vow, no mortal plea," his hand reached the top and gripped the muddy dirt of no-man's land.
"Can hold the grave away from me," he pulled himself onto up and stood on his own two feet.
"So come, old friend, your hand I take—" he glared at the approaching tsunami of soviet blood and iron.
"In death, at last, I am awake," He pointed his pistol at the tank that had also turned its turret to face him, the scene becoming rather comical in nature at how utterly outclassed he was.
James let a faint smile appear on his face as he pulled the trigger.
*Boom*
He saw the flash of the tank's gun; the shell exploded the ground around him before he even heard the deafening explosion.
…
[Welcome Player; you have been given a choice. Please select one of the following:]
[God: Become the God of a World (Planet) and lead your world into becoming the strongest world of them all]
[Race Spirit: Become the Spirit of a Race (you must evolve the species first) and lead them into dominating all others]
[You have 232 days to select the option before it is randomly selected for you. After selection, a talent will be assigned at random]
James looked at the floating screen in front of his eyes, absolutely gobsmacked.
The words were both English and German at the same time. It took him a moment to understand that these were the only two languages he knew, and they were likely a lot more other languages that he could not make out.
'He… so there truly was no afterlife. No… this might just be the afterlife… but it is not one described in Christianity or in the Nazi propaganda. And the description makes it sound a bit too familiar; I get the feeling this is going to be a lot of war as well…' James sighed while trying to rub his forehead, only to realise he no longer had a body.
Word Count: 1074 words