Winter had descended upon the trenches. This wasn't a cozy winter with hot cocoa in hand or the warm glow of a Christmas tree surrounded by family. On the front lines, it was an invisible specter, piercing to the bone. Though only in its early stages, the biting cold had already crept in, mercilessly gnawing at the Felsburg soldiers' bodies. Every breath they exhaled turned into thick white mist in the frozen air, as if each gasp was a last-ditch effort to stay alive.
They huddled in the muddy trench bottom, pressing against each other, trying to find warmth from their comrades amidst the damp earth. Some teeth chattered uncontrollably, while fingers felt numb and stiff. Here and there, makeshift bonfires flickered dimly – thin wisps of smoke curled up from piles of burning wet wood, providing more suffocating fumes than warmth. The soldiers held their reddened palms close to the weak flames, hoping to ward off the numbness creeping over their skin.
Beneath the drab standard Felsburg Military uniforms, their bodies appeared oddly swollen. That was because underneath, they wore layer upon layer of thick woolen clothing—vests, sweaters, socks, even itchy wool underwear—all for meager warmth. The wool material, often damp from dew or mud, was their only defense against the cold. Every movement felt heavy and hindered by the bulky layers of fabric, but without them, they wouldn't survive. Their skin was dry and cracked, lips blue, and fingertips numb. The ceaseless cold wind carried with it the scent of gunpowder and death, a constant reminder that on this front line, it wasn't just the enemy who could kill them.
Hans walked in silence amidst the endless horror. His uniform was stiff from frost and dried blood. He was now in a reserve trench behind the front line, on his way to battalion headquarters. His unit had just been rotated after fierce fighting that morning; they had been pulled back to recover, while another unit took over the position they had just left in the hell on the very front line.
"Lieutenant."
"Proceed, Soldier."
Occasionally, as Hans walked, some of the soldiers he passed saluted him. Although their uniforms were mud-stained and their faces looked weary, military discipline remained intact. Hans returned each soldier's salute, his gaze noting every face—some still young, some already appearing old before their time.
Among those who saluted, two soldiers were seen carrying their dying comrade—whether from severe frostbite or an incurable enemy gunshot wound. Despite their hands being busy supporting the helpless body, they stood straight and gave a firm salute to Hans, their gazes reflecting unbreakable determination. A heartbreaking sight, yet common on the battlefield.
Along the way, Hans himself was very careful with every step he took. He avoided rotten or fragile wooden planks and stepped carefully through thick puddles of mud. All of this was done to prevent twisting an ankle or aggravating the already inevitable frostbite and trench foot. His feet already felt frozen, but he couldn't let his guard down.
The journey felt slow; every step was a struggle against exhaustion and the biting cold. But eventually, he arrived at the entrance of a sturdier trench dugout, or rather a bunker, which seemed to serve as the 2nd Infantry Battalion's headquarters. The door was made of poor-quality wood, looking rickety but solidly embedded in the damp earthen wall.
The reason he was heading there was that shortly after his unit reached the reserve trench, a messenger from headquarters had met him with an urgent order to report immediately. Hans himself didn't know the reason behind this sudden summons. His mind was filled with questions: Was there a new attack? Was there a change in strategy? Or was this about the desertion incident earlier?
Without waiting long, Hans grasped the rickety doorknob and pushed it open. A wall of sound and activity immediately greeted him, a total contrast to the chilling silence outside.
"Who put these files on the wrong shelf!?"
"Not me, Alfred usually makes that mistake."
"Hey! It wasn't me this time!"
When he entered the bunker, it was filled with busy administrative officers, scurrying around with stacks of files in their hands. The air was thick with the distinct smell of paper and bitter coffee. These officers—in much cleaner uniforms—looked frustrated with their papers, as if they too were fighting, but on an equally exhausting bureaucratic battlefield. The situation was truly in stark contrast to the mud, cold, and death outside.
Not wanting to get caught in the unfamiliar administrative chaos for too long, Hans took the initiative to approach one of the officers who seemed less busy with his work and was of the same rank as him, a young bespectacled Lieutenant.
"Lieutenant, sorry to bother you, where is the battalion commander? I came here as per his order," Hans asked the young officer.
"Oh, he just stepped out to take care of something," the young officer replied, pointing towards another corridor stacked with files.
"Hmm, I see, how inconvenient," Hans grumbled, feeling a touch of bitter annoyance. He had traveled a long way through muddy trenches, only for the person who summoned him to be absent.
"Wait, are you First Lieutenant Hans Schubert, commanding the 3rd Company?" the officer asked abruptly, his voice filled with a deep sense of recognition.
"Oh, you know my name?" Hans raised an eyebrow, a little surprised by the quick recognition.
"Of course, Major," he quickly replied. "Actually, it wasn't the Battalion commander who summoned you, but Colonel Volker himself. I'm from Regimental headquarters, here to accompany him."
".....Colonel Volker?"
Hans couldn't even hide his surprised expression. Colonel Volker was a high-ranking officer, the Commander of the 506th Infantry Regiment—the parent unit of this 2nd Infantry Battalion—and one of the most respected officers on the front lines. A strange premonition hung in his mind: what could a Colonel possibly want from him personally?
While trying to process the surprise, Hans followed the young officer's instructions, stepping deeper into the bunker. They passed through narrow corridors lit by dim oil lamps, finally stopping in front of a wooden door to a room. The young Lieutenant knocked on the door, his knocks echoing loudly amidst the administrative hustle.
"Colonel, as you ordered, First Lieutenant Hans Schubert has arrived and is ready to meet you," he said.
"Alright, send him in, and I wish to speak with him privately," a voice replied from inside the room. The voice was very deep and heavy, laden with experience and authority, making Hans think the owner's age was not far from his own—another veteran who had experienced the bitterness of life on the front lines.
Not wanting to keep the Colonel waiting, Hans immediately entered the room after being granted permission. Whatever the Colonel wanted to discuss privately, a mystery hanging heavy in his mind, Hans could only ignore it for the time being.
The room Hans entered was not luxurious. After all, it was a front-line bunker meant for function and efficiency, not extravagance. Inside, there were only a few sturdy iron shelves filled with stacks of important documents for the ongoing war. The scent of paper, stale ink, and a slight damp smell was more concentrated here, clinging to the cold air.
In the middle of the room, a man whose age didn't seem much different from Hans sat at a wooden desk piled high with documents. There was no mistaking it, this man was certainly Colonel Volker, the commander of the 506th Infantry Regiment.
The commander wasn't wearing his commander's hat. It was placed on the table, revealing thick white hair at the sides of his head, making him look like an eagle—the gallant symbol of the Felsburg Kingdom, now clearly etched on the Colonel's face.
"First Lieutenant Hans Schubert reporting," Hans said firmly as he gave a military salute to the Colonel, his hand moving stiffly but with full discipline.
"Sit down."
Hans immediately obeyed the short and concise command without further delay. He pulled one of the wooden chairs near the desk and promptly sat on it, now sitting directly opposite the Colonel.
But even after he sat down, the atmosphere didn't change much. The Colonel was still busy writing a report on his desk, his pen scratching against the paper, creating the only sound in the room, silent from the outside hustle. The Colonel seemed completely focused on his task, as if he had forgotten that the person he had summoned was sitting in front of him. Hans felt the current atmosphere was truly awkward, a subtle tension that felt different from the tension of the battlefield, but still oppressive.
Until something surprising happened. Colonel Volker put down his pen and looked up, staring at Hans. His expression was very different; the face that had previously been very serious and focused suddenly softened into a very friendly expression as he began to speak to Hans.
"Alright, Hans, thank you for answering my call and coming here," the Colonel said.
"No need for thanks, Colonel. If it's an order, of course, I will come," Hans replied, still firm and maintaining military etiquette.
"No need to be so formal," the Colonel replied casually, then continued, "Our ages aren't too far apart."
"Is that so?"
"Of course."
Hans was actually still wary of the person in front of him. Although he recognized his name and reputation, Hans had never spoken to him directly. The Colonel's figure, with his sharp gaze and an aura of deep experience, made him feel a little intimidated—a common dynamic between junior officers and respected superiors.
"Alright."
"Good."
But since the Colonel himself said not to be too serious, Hans eventually tried to obey his words, though he didn't fully do so. His experience taught him how troublesome the unclear boundaries of military officers could sometimes be—being too relaxed could lead to unexpected problems.
"By the way, you're really that old, at least for a soldier who participates directly in combat." Colonel Volker smiled faintly, his eyes observing Hans with an understanding expression.
"Colonel, although my physique is getting older, sometimes I feel as if I'm still in my twenties," Hans retorted, attempting a slight joke.
"Haha, I understand that feeling. Sometimes I also can't believe I'm already in middle age," Colonel Volker replied, a small laugh escaping his lips, a sincere laugh amidst the headquarters' hustle and bustle.
From this, Hans felt the previously very awkward atmosphere suddenly become lighter, as if an invisible burden had been lifted from their shoulders.
"So, Hans, if that's the case, you are a family man, aren't you?" Colonel Volker asked, his gaze softening.
"Must I answer that, Colonel?" Hans asked back, wary.
"If you don't answer it, so beat it."
Actually, Hans was beginning to feel that the question was irrelevant. He was sure he wasn't summoned here just to be asked about his family status. This was clearly just small talk—something very unusual in a military organization that was always straightforward in communication, especially in a war situation like this.
"I am married and have two children," Hans replied, deciding to answer anyway. "My son has joined the military and is now in one of Felsburg's units. My daughter is still living with her mother at home." He deliberately obscured his family details as a form of protection, careful not to give information that could be exploited.
"I see. You are indeed a lucky man," Colonel Volker said, with a sincere tone in his voice.
"Lucky?" Hans repeated, curiosity arising in his mind.
"Yes, because my wife and I have been married for thirty years and are now in our fifties, but we still haven't been blessed with children," the Colonel explained, his expression looking somewhat sad as he touched on the topic.
Hearing that, Hans could no longer hide his surprise. He had heard stories of married couples who hadn't been blessed with ideal children, but this was the first time Hans had met someone directly experiencing such a bitter situation.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Colonel."
"No need to bother," Colonel Volker smiled faintly. "Even so, my wife and I are still happy even living just the two of us. Oh, actually three, with my adorable dog."
"If that's the case, I'm glad to hear it," Hans replied.
"Besides, many of my friends like to complain that their expenses increase with their children's age," the Colonel explained with a slight teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood further.
"Haha, on that, I agree, Colonel."
With just a few exchanges of words, the previously very awkward atmosphere suddenly became much lighter. Hans felt this was the first time he had found such a good conversational partner since his previous commander, Paul, died in battle last year. They were like two middle-aged men chatting casually, as if they had known each other for a long time, not superior and subordinate, but two veterans sharing the same burden.
But in the middle of this casual conversation, Colonel Volker suddenly asked something surprising, "Hans, are you willing to lead this Battalion?"
"Colonel?" The question came suddenly, an offer that had never crossed Hans's mind, even in his wildest dreams.
"To be honest, Hans. You are one of the few soldiers who survived the Velmure rear-guard battle, which has made you quite well-known within our military organization. You are respected by young soldiers who hear your story, and most importantly, you are a former member of the last wolf unit from Velmure—Paul's unit," Colonel Volker explained, his voice serious, stating his reasons clearly.
Hearing the explanation, Hans could only ponder. He himself didn't care about his story being known by many in the military. He survived also because of Paul's order to help another unit in the southern sector, and he was also lucky enough not to be trapped in the pocket of Noirval's forces plus their allies, and another stroke of luck was that Hans and some of his comrades managed to escape the deadly encirclement.
But what still annoyed him to this day was that the story of the Company unit commanded by Paul—or what is now called 'The Last Wolves of Velmure'—was only known within military circles and kept secret from the public. The reason was that Erzregen did not want any information related to the failure of Operation Geisterdämmerung or the Felsburg forces being pushed back by Noirval to spread to the public, considering that the battle fought by Paul was to protect the main forces retreating. A bitter irony amidst all the sacrifices.
As Hans was lost in thought, the Colonel seemed to be still speaking. "I don't know what the previous regimental commander was thinking," he continued, his tone turning cold, "he overlooked you in his promotion recommendations to the military personnel division. I truly don't understand."
Colonel Volker sighed, his disappointment clearly visible. The Regimental Commander before him was a very incompetent leader. He was known for never making bad decisions not because he was smart, but because he made no decisions at all. As a result, many battalion commanders didn't know what to do because there were no direct orders from Regiment HQ, and sometimes battalion commanders engaged in fierce debates among themselves, which further fractured the unit's internal cohesion. But that was nothing compared to when a rumor circulated that the previous commander used the soldiers' coffee water ration for bathing—that's when anger erupted within the unit.
"But Colonel, what about Major Dietrich? Isn't he currently leading this Battalion?" Hans asked, trying to find an opening, understanding the existing command structure.
"Don't worry about that. He can still be said to be leading this unit, but he will only handle the unit's documents or administration. So, basically, you will be the executive officer for this battalion, and of course, your rank will also be promoted to Major," Colonel Volker explained, ensuring there was no doubt.
"Hmm, I see," Hans replied, rubbing his chin, considering the burden of responsibility.
Even so, Hans was still quite hesitant to accept the responsibility, because leading a battalion was not the same as leading a company unit—the responsibilities were much greater and more complex.
"Honestly, Hans. Here I want to help you. With you already being fifty-six years old, it will be hard on your physique," Colonel Volker said sincerely, an honest acknowledgment of the age limitations on the battlefield.
When Hans heard the Colonel's words, he felt as if he had been slapped by the truth. What Colonel Volker said was an undeniable bitter reality. Lately, he had indeed begun to find it difficult to lead his company unit because his physique was aging and it was very hard to keep up with the increasing intensity of the battles.
"Alright, I will accept the promotion."
In the end, Hans strengthened his resolve to take on the responsibility. He thought that all of this was for the good of his company unit, because if something happened, it would only make his company's situation even more difficult. Besides, him becoming a battalion commander didn't mean he would be separated from his company unit—on the contrary, he could help more, ensuring the fate of his men wouldn't end tragically like other units.