Although Lynn had never actively asked for it, "Butcher" took it upon himself to have him bring out the shotgun and then disassemble it into parts, just like he had done back in the village when they were resting. He took the faulty firing pin to show to the old-fashioned German soldier in his outdated uniform.
The "old soldier" took the firing pin, examined it, and muttered something to the "Butcher." Nodding, he handed over the remaining parts and then rolled up his sleeves to show Lynn his wristwatch. The time on the dial read 5:25. "Butcher" promptly gestured six with his fingers and pointed to the corresponding spot on the dial. Lynn understood that it meant the gun could be fixed by six.
As long as the Soviets didn't attack, Lynn could wait for thirty-five minutes. He nodded eagerly to "Butcher." The SS sergeant had intended to leave, but seeing Lynn's damaged helmet and the scrap metal in the shop, he silently entered alone. Among the scrap metal, he found a helmet, turned to Lynn, and gestured to him. Lynn hesitated for a moment, then quickly took off his own helmet and brought it inside.
A good helmet might save a life in critical moments, but when Lynn received the helmet from the "Butcher," he hesitated. Although it appeared intact, Lynn's battlefield experience told him that it likely belonged to a fallen soldier.
Not particularly superstitious and having always been brave, Lynn still felt a reluctance towards these "relics." However, he couldn't disregard "Butcher's" kindness. Holding the helmet, he stood there in conflict. Whether the "Butcher" didn't notice Lynn's expression or simply didn't care, he left promptly.
With no other choice, Lynn hung the helmet on his belt and followed "Butcher" in the direction they had been going, eventually arriving at a circular square in front of the church—a place Lynn had noticed when he first saw the town. In the center of the square, contrary to Lynn's expectation of a fountain, the cobblestones were smoothed by the residents' footsteps over the years. Surrounding the square were hundreds of German soldiers, apparently divided into groups according to their units. "Butcher" stopped a soldier, exchanged a few words, then led Lynn towards the right side of the church, where more than twenty soldiers were gathered in front of a house with shattered windows. They all looked weary and dirty, as if they had just come off the front lines. Approaching an officer with a mustache, "Butcher" saluted formally, and the officer returned the salute. From their subsequent conversation and demeanor, it was clear they knew each other. They probably belonged to the same unit, but which level—division, battalion, company, or platoon? Considering Lynn's near-death experiences, he ruled out the last option, and the second-to-last seemed unlikely.
The answer didn't seem important to Lynn at the moment. After conversing for over a minute, "Butcher" glanced at the church, then ended his sentence with a questioning tone. The officer glanced at the church and replied calmly. "Butcher" nodded and turned to Lynn, speaking to him, then realizing Lynn's hearing impairment, he gestured towards the church. Lynn figured he was being invited to pray together, despite having no religious beliefs himself. Still, given his experience with soul transmigration, he thought it might have something to do with the Creator. So, he nodded and followed "Butcher" towards the Gothic-style building.
In Europe, churches often stood as the grandest buildings in towns, and the proportion of religious adherents reportedly exceeded that of the other three continents combined. The reasons for religion's prevalence here were diverse, but only a few theologians and historians were interested in exploring them. To Lynn, religious faith was nothing more than a spiritual support, a pillar of thought to overcome difficulties in reality. Belief existed for those who believed, and for those trapped in life's suffering, faith might be the only reason to live.
Entering the church's portico, the gray columns and walls immediately imparted a sense of solemnity. Lynn slowed his pace, but his heavy boots still made a clanking sound on the stone floor. Unlike the famous churches often showcased on travel shows, this church's narrow and long nave felt cramped. Rows of benches extended from the entrance to the altar, likely accommodating four or five hundred people, crowded during worship, weddings, or baptisms. Currently, only about twenty or thirty people sat sporadically on the benches, mostly soldiers in uniform. Some bowed their heads, some folded their hands in prayer, while others sat straight with their helmets and caps beside them.
Like "Butcher," Lynn removed his cloth cap and left his weapon outside as they entered. They walked through the aisle between the benches, and unlike "Butcher's" devout demeanor, Lynn observed the church with curiosity. The lofty dome was adorned with colorful murals, six simple crystal chandeliers hung along the central axis, and stained glass windows lined the walls, some broken and missing. As the last rays of the setting sun illuminated the western window, it created a magical halo effect, shrouding the entire church in a mysterious yet dignified atmosphere.
When they reached the third row, "Butcher" stopped and sat down against the right wall. Only then did Lynn notice that the Jesus statue on the altar was not the usual depiction of the crucifixion. This Jesus wore a white robe, arms outstretched with a serene and compassionate gaze, as if embracing his followers, showering them with blessings. For those returning from the battlefield, this was the embrace of divine love, a haven from the storm, a sacred place to redeem worldly sins.
Seeing "Butcher," who perhaps wished for some solitude at the moment, Lynn chose a seat on the left side of the same row, placing his helmet and cap gently on the bench before sitting down. With no roar of planes or armored vehicles, no thunder of gunfire, not even the sound of people speaking, this unique environment quickly calmed Lynn's mind. For a moment, he even forgot the hellish experiences of the past few dozen hours, forgot his comrades who had died in various ways, forgot the enemies he had killed. But soon after, those unforgettable scenes began to replay in his mind like a revolving lantern. He raised his head to face the front, where the porcelain-white Jesus statue stood silently on the altar, half-open eyes not surprised or sorrowful, but rather accepting of the bloody slaughter in the world, arms slightly downward from the shoulders, demonstrating God's compassion for mortals.
Glancing at "Butcher," who had placed his forehead against the backrest of the front bench, hands folded on his knees, eyes tightly shut, murmuring words silently, Lynn wondered if he was praying for himself. From what Lynn had observed, the SS sergeant's rough attitude towards his subordinates was merely a reflection of his style, not outright malice. He had shown care and concern for his comrades in many small details. As for the enemies he had killed, there were likely fewer than Lynn's tally.
Was he praying for himself? Everything on the battlefield was filled with randomness; a tough combat style didn't necessarily mean being the first to die. In three days of intense fighting, countless soldiers perished at the bottom of trenches, while many upright individuals managed to survive. It seemed as though the great god of war was protecting the bravest warriors in the shadows.
The hardest thing to decipher is another person's thoughts, especially for someone as reserved as the "Ice Man." Lynn abandoned the attempt to speculate, took a long breath, lowered his head, closed his eyes, clasped his hands tightly together, and solemnly prayed to the god he had never prayed to before...