Artilleriefeuer, Tarnung （Shelling Concealment）
The cries had just begun when the sharp, piercing whistles cut through the air. Sometimes they sounded almost like the whistles of small boats on the river, yet they brought no color to life; sometimes they resembled the playful whistles blown by mischievous children in the silent night, yet there was no stopping them with a mere prank; sometimes, even with fingers tightly pressed into ears, they pierced through everything, violently shaking the brain, pounding the heart, and churning the spleen, lungs, and kidneys!
Boom! Boom! Boom...
The explosions followed in quick succession, fiercely pounding the ground, powerful shocks creating violent waves of air. The scythe of death dwelt within rapidly spinning shards, sweeping through everything with elusive trajectories. The earth trembled violently, as if the entire world had been distorted. Unfortunate Lynn curled up at the bottom of the cold, muddy trench, hands covering his head, knees pressed to his chest, lying on his side, eyes and lips tightly shut, pretending to be a stone, a lump of frozen soil, or a corpse—anything to survive this damn barrage.
In this winding trench, there were many others like Lynn, wearing large ear-brim steel helmets, dressed in "pea camouflage" combat uniforms, and wearing large leather boots. Some held their weapons close, while others set them aside. Some closed their eyes calmly to rest, some murmured words to themselves, while others sat, lay, or huddled in corners, their faces ashen, their eyes vacant, lost in bewilderment. The storm of artillery fire raged fiercely and intensely, sharp whistling mingling with loud explosions, rising and falling in pitch. If this were a symphony of war, even if tickets were given away for free, there would probably be no volunteers to listen: the timing was unpredictable, coming without warning, affecting the audience psychologically and physically with immense side effects!
For those in the trenches, there was no choice. Either pray or leave it to fate. Shells fell directly into the trench, with entire squads or rows being wiped out not being an uncommon occurrence, while some lucky veterans could endure a hundred bombardments unscathed.
But the agony of enduring the bombardment made every minute feel so long that people couldn't help but wonder: had time frozen at this moment?
After a long time, the sound of the earth-shattering waves gradually subsided, and after a few more minutes, the final dull roar marked the end of this powerful symphony. The night sky grew quiet, the rapid changes causing everyone from their eardrums to their hearts to experience the inertia, even inducing a good vomiting effect for those with underdeveloped brains. The survivors endured the ordeal without a hint of celebration; the wounded, amidst painful moans, received only empty sympathy. As for the dead, there was no distinction between honor and disgrace, perseverance and wavering, optimism and despair—it was all over.
Achtung, Achtung, bereit zum Kampf. （Attention, attention, prepare for battle.）
The urgent cries rang out as usual after the enemy's bombardment ceased, swiftly echoing through the various trenches. The previously motionless helmets, resembling sculptures, began to stir as soldiers rose from their positions, some darting along communication trenches towards the frontline, others assuming their combat stances. Guns, helmets, canteens, and various other hard objects rubbed and collided with each other, converging into a unique cacophony within the trenches, quickly filling the air with tension.
Unfortunate Lynn, reluctant but fearful of the intense pain of a boot kicking into him, struggled to prop himself up, picking up his mud-stained rifle from the ground with a wooden expression, waiting. When the irritable officer waved his fist and shouted "Forward!", Lynn, alongside his comrades, promptly huddled at the trench's edge, ready to fire their weapons.
It sounded dull and foolish, yet it was the cruel reality facing Lynn. Just forty-one hours earlier, he was an idealistic young man who had never even killed a chicken. Fresh out of university, he busied himself every day, dreaming of one day walking down the aisle with his bride, entering a church strewn with petals, receiving blessings from family and friends, and living a happily ordinary life. Such a life ideal wasn't extravagant, but a mere mishap, a coma, and upon waking, he found himself plunged into a nightmare, or rather, a nightmarish reality!
Crack! Crack! Clank! Clank!
Gunshots rang out sporadically. It was a simple logic that Lynn, unable to communicate with those around him, could still grasp: after the bombardment comes the attack. Putting aside the linguistic barrier, Lynn felt a deep sense of injustice. From elementary school to university, like most schoolchildren, he toiled relentlessly to master English, only to find that it wasn't universal in this world. Trying to converse with the "helmets with big ears" standing alongside him in the trench, Lynn felt frustrated. Although he knew they were Germans speaking German, he couldn't understand a word, couldn't utter a single sentence, and Lynn had taken quite a beating for it at the beginning.
Getting kicked when someone else's foot is the offender; the pain is yours. Lynn quickly learned his lesson, mimicking whatever actions he saw around him. Concealment, taking position, firing, and ceasing fire, he endured over forty hours like this. Eating when there was food, drinking when there was water, besides often feeling confused, ears ringing, and body aching, he managed. After all, he wasn't injured, all his limbs intact, much luckier than those other unlucky souls.
Das Laden der Munition （loading ammunition）
In this world where death lurked at every moment, the familiar hoarse voice emanated not far away. People's tempers seemed particularly volatile, especially the "Butcher". Lynn coined this nickname for his "superior" in this world. The guy had a rugged square face, sparse stubble, broad shoulders, and muscular arms, with a resemblance to the tenacious midfielder Gattuso from AC Milan. Taking off his military uniform and wielding a butchering knife, his stance left no doubt about his expertise in cutting meat and bone!
Under the urging of this duck-like slogan, soldiers with big ears and helmets quickly climbed onto the steps along the trench's sidewall. To protect the soldiers, the trench was dug deep, and both walls were reinforced with wooden strips. Standing straight, one couldn't reach the edge; they had to stand on piled-up earth or empty boxes to peek out.
Before the fierce "Butcher" arrived, Lynn hastily stood on the steps, now covered with a thin layer of ice. On the first noon after waking up, he carefully examined his new body: his physique was sturdy enough, about the same height as others, estimating around six feet. As for his appearance... If the shattered mirror wasn't bewitched, then he had unfortunately turned into a European man with a high nose, deep eye sockets, scruffy beard, fluffy hair, and a somewhat pale and decadent look. The only comforting thing was his hair, covered in mud, which had a black texture. Coupled with a melon seed face, he resembled a foreign handsome man in his thirties, somewhat akin to Raul Gonzalez.
The cruel battles didn't leave Lynn much time for "self-admiration". The trench he was in was located on a hill running east to west. About five or six kilometers northeast was an ancient-style fortress, estimated to be a crucial support point along the entire line of defense. It had suffered from the enemy's almost sadistic artillery bombardment in the past two days. To the west lay vast forests, also guarded by troops, with a similarly deployed defense in depth. The burnt tree roots still served as a natural barrier against enemy tanks. Thus, this seemingly elevated hill became the focal point for enemy ground assaults. Since Lynn became conscious, there had been four battles, far more intense than scenes from Spielberg's war movies decades later.
Under the night sky, flares illuminated the land with a bright white or pale yellow glow, giving it an eerie hue. Sporadic or clustered bullets streaked in a dark red-orange hue, flying rapidly from the frontline trenches to the distance. Before the hill was a relatively open plain, with a stream over two meters wide further ahead. On the opposite bank, there used to be small groves and bushes, but under continued bombardment, only a few stumps remained, and the pitted muddy ground resembled a pigsty trampled into a mess by pig hooves. With the enemy's renewed assault, countless figures moved on the pockmarked snowy ground, and some much larger and more lethal than human shadows—the tanks!
Boom...
The cannons from the defensive positions fired. Even during the day, Lynn had only glimpsed the camouflage covering the gun emplacements from afar. Due to the language barrier, he didn't dare to go and see what they actually were, only guessing whether they were 75-millimeter standard anti-tank guns or the famous "88-millimeter gun". As a young man passionate about military affairs, especially World War II military affairs since high school, Lynn had always believed his military knowledge was quite extensive. However, in the past forty-odd hours, this notion had been completely overturned. He was astonished and disheartened to find that he wasn't familiar with these weapons at all. He even felt that the Mauser rifle in his hand was more like a 98b than a 98k—there were differences between the picture and the reality, after all. The paper manuals and instructions were insufficient for smoothly using a traditional bolt-action rifle: loading wasn't as simple as putting bullets into the magazine; the action of resetting the bolt was more skillful than imagined; three-point aiming seemed something even a child could handle, but the slightest tremor when pulling the trigger would cause the bullet to veer off. As for the true sensation of the recoil pushing against the shoulder when shooting, Lynn had experienced it during military training with semi-automatic rifles, but the recoil of a 7.92-millimeter caliber rifle was much harder to control.
(Note: The early Mauser 98b is 15 centimeters longer and 0.11 kilograms heavier than the Mauser 98k, with some other differences. This rifle was also extensively used by the German ** during World War II.)
Before the sound of the cannon fire subsided, a burst of flames erupted on the open ground opposite, indicating that the shells had slightly missed their mark. Before people could react, booming sounds of artillery came one after another from the side and rear of the defensive positions, with shells streaking into the attackers' ranks in an instant. Under the illumination of flares, two large shadows instantly turned into fireballs, moving forward for a short distance due to inertia before lying still like dead pigs.
"Get them! Get them all!"
Lynn prayed repeatedly in his heart, not because he had changed his beliefs. In previous attacks, the fierce assaults by Soviet forces left an extremely deep impression on him. If their artillery couldn't take out the Soviet tanks early, they would cause heavy casualties to the defending soldiers with tank cannons and machine guns upon getting closer. The soldiers in the frontline trenches would then have to use bazookas, grenades, explosive packs, and Molotov cocktails to stop them. Lynn had witnessed firsthand the life-threatening intensity of these anti-tank measures, a scene that left an unprecedented impact on his soul.
Four battles, the positions remained unyielding, but batches of killed and severely injured soldiers were carried away, with many unfamiliar faces around Lynn. Although no one said anything, there was an indescribable heaviness hanging over everyone, fearing that the next casualty might be themselves.
Lynn didn't want to die in a strange place where he didn't even know the name.