Battlefield Priest's Diary

Chapter 125 That Guy
From that day on, Pierre officially became a corpse collector.

Once in the morning and once in the evening, he dragged his small cart, carrying a hoe and a hook, through the trenches.

One by one, the corpses were dragged onto carts and taken away, and Pierre became more and more skilled at this "business".

First, confirm that the other party is completely dead, then search for identification tags or a suicide note, gather together any valuable belongings, and finally use a long hook to secure the body to the cart.

Bodies buried in the sand can be troublesome; be careful not to break their fingers when using a pickaxe.

A week later, Pierre was finally able to eat his three meals a day without any pressure next to the corpse.

He thought he would stay like this until the war ended, until that day came.

It was near dusk when Pierre was informed that the shelling had just ended and that he should immediately go to the front lines to "work".

Hitching onto the small cart, he ate the remaining third of the black bread and headed towards his destination.

The setting sun cast a half-sun, staining the entire trench as if it had been smeared with blood. From time to time, the groans of wounded soldiers could be heard, along with the occasional cawing of crows.

For some reason, Pierre felt his heart pounding.

After turning past the familiar trenches and entering the front lines, the young body collector calmed himself down and prepared to leave immediately after finishing his work.

blah blah blah!

The black bread fell to the ground and rolled into the mud mixed with blood.

On one side of the trench, a stiff figure leaned against the earthen wall of the trench.

Half of the dim sunlight fell on his face. The deceased's face was so familiar, just like the one when he handed him the armband that day.

The veteran leaned there quietly, a bullet hole in his neck, his hand still clutching his rifle.

Pierre felt as if something was stuck in his throat, and an emotion was churning in his chest.

He walked over tremblingly, wanting to check on the veteran's condition, only to discover that the man had bled out of his body.

When he rummaged through the pockets of his coat, he found only half a pack of cigarettes, a piece of military identification, and a piece of letter paper.

Toulouse Victor—this was the first time he had heard the other person's name.

Unfold the letter; it contained only a few words.
[Kid, bury it shallower.]

Overwhelmed with emotion, the young recruit knelt on the ground and burst into tears!
Aaaaaaahh ...

The cries that didn't sound like human wails echoed in the twilight, startling the crows into flight!
He tore off the armband from his arm and crumpled it into a ball. That day, he did not return as scheduled for the ceasefire.

boom! ! ! !

A sniper shot emerged from the trench and grazed the cheek of the lead soldier!

"Watch out! There's an ambush!"

"There's only one person! He's all alone!"

"Be careful!"

boom! boom! boom! boom! !

A series of gunshots rang out in the night, and Pierre, who was hiding in the trench, emptied his rifle.

Battlefield skills cannot be changed by momentary bravery.

When he was surrounded by Germans from all sides, Pierre's mind was surprisingly clear, and his only thought at that moment was...

"Damn it! We should have buried old Victor first, or I might be on top of him now."

Quack!
The mournful cawing of crows rang out, and the German soldiers in front of them suddenly panicked.

"The one who reported the death! It's the one who reported the death!" someone shouted frantically. *Puff puff puff puff puff!*

The crisp sound of rifle fire rang in my ears, followed by gunfire from all directions and the sound of grenades exploding.

As the Germans retreated, a man in a black robe pulled him up.

"That's not how you fight a war."

"Come with me."
-
On April 8, 1916, an unprecedented air battle broke out over the Belville Heights of Verdun.

Dozens of brightly painted fighter jets flew overhead, entangled with French Newport fighters, and the two sides chased and tore at each other in the air, with planes constantly crashing down, billowing thick black smoke.

At this time, the French air force was significantly weaker than the German air force, especially in terms of the number of ace pilots, which was far less than that of the more formidable opponent. Soon, Newports in the sky were shot down one after another, but the remaining fighters still bravely pursued them.

The French Air Force, at the cost of heavy casualties, held off its opponents, and the skies over Verdun remained unclaimed by either side.

Without air support, the soldiers on both sides on the ground could only resort to the most bloody methods to kill each other.

After the shelling, an enemy unlike any they had ever seen appeared in front of the French positions—four Earhart armored vehicles lined up side by side acted as the vanguard, breaking into the French positions before the infantry.

The French army was clearly caught off guard by this groundbreaking tactic of concentrated use of armored vehicles.

Bang bang bang bang bang bang! ! ! ! ! !
French machine gun positions opened fire, bullets hitting the surface of the armored vehicles and scattering sparks, but they could not stop these "iron boxes" from advancing.

These five-ton behemoths had 10mm of armor, enough to protect them from machine gun bullets from the front, while a small squad of German soldiers followed carefully behind them, bending over.

German soldiers successfully jumped into the first trench, where barbed wire that had been destroyed and leaned over on the roadside, burning wood, and corpses lying haphazardly were everywhere.

"Set up the machine gun! Set up the machine gun! Organize the defense!" The sergeant in charge shouted to the people behind him, and some dragged heavy MG08 machine guns to set up positions.

A forward position penetrating the French defenses has been initially established, and it will be easy to expand the gains once subsequent support troops arrive.

In the distance, the commander in the German command post clapped his hands lightly, and the other officers around him followed suit.

"As expected of someone who has earned merit on the Eastern Front, this is the first time I've ever seen a tank assault like this. The French must have been quite taken aback as well," the commander said, looking at the captain in front of him.

"You flatter me, sir! My idea is still very immature." The young man nodded calmly, showing no sign of pride.

"Alright, the machine gun is set up. Next, we should..."

Halfway through the conversation, the situation on the battlefield suddenly changed. A large flock of black-winged crows cawed and flew into the sky.

"Damn it! It's that guy!" an officer cursed angrily.

"Who?" Manstein asked curiously, noticing the somewhat panicked expressions on the faces of those around him.

"You don't know, that guy..."

puff! !

With a gunshot, the German sergeant on the position fell to the side, his neck lolling to the side, and then grenades were thrown from all directions!
Boom boom boom! ! ! ! !

One explosion after another rang out in the positions the Germans had just occupied. The heavy machine guns that had just been set up were targeted, and the German soldiers who had just entered the trenches hadn't even figured out what was happening when French soldiers jumped in with bayonets at their ready.

About ten minutes later, the armored vehicles sheepishly covered the remaining soldiers as they retreated back to the German positions. One of the slower vehicles was even destroyed on the ground by the enemy's rapid-fire artillery.

Quack! Quack!

The mournful cawing of crows rang out, and the officers' expressions were grim, some with shifty eyes.

Manstein looked at his advisor and placed his hand on the table in front of him. "Sir, I think we both have time now."

"Could you tell me about [that guy]? Who exactly is he?!"

(End of this chapter)