My soldiers are all Fourth Calamities!

07. Absolutely the most despicable act! The most disgusting! The most heinous crime!

Rochester looked at the recruit still clinging to him and shook his shoulder. "That's over, kid."

The recruit seemed to realize that what he had done was a bit bad. He looked around in a panic. Rochester could completely understand the recruit's reaction. After all, he shouldn't be fighting here at this age. It was a normal thing for young people who hadn't experienced or accepted this kind of thing.

Rochester couldn't think of any words of comfort, or rather, words of comfort were generally useless on the battlefield. After much deliberation, he finally replied, "You'll get used to it."

The recruit touched the helmet that was on his backside. He hurriedly put it back on his head before slowly coming to his senses. Suddenly, his face turned bright red, and he looked somewhat embarrassed and flustered. He then belatedly touched his backside.

Then a smell reached Rochester's nose—he immediately understood what was happening—and he was so frightened that he lost control of his bladder.

Rochester quickly said, "It's not shameful. Many people braver than you wet their pants the first time they were attacked. Go behind the bushes and throw it away. Of course, it would be better if you could get a new pair."

The recruits ran off, and everything quieted down again.

But soon, a mournful howl came from afar.

At that moment, Anton ran back from the battlefield, carrying a greatsword. Rochester pointed in the direction from which the voice came and asked him, "What happened, Anton?"

The howling didn't sound like a human voice; a human wouldn't howl so terrifyingly.

"Several companies over there have been wounded, and several batches of horses have also been injured." Anton slid into the trench, clutching the greatsword. "To be honest, I've never heard a horse howl before. I can hardly imagine that the sound is like a lament for the world, coming from a kind of chilling pain."

It has to be said that Anton, as a soldier who had attended university, spoke with a certain air about him.

Rochester's gaze returned to the greatsword in Anton's hand. "Is this the 'knight's' sword?"

"Of course!" Anton said happily, as if he had finally heard Rochester say that. "This is the first time our team has obtained spoils of war. Just imagine how interesting it will be when we have a whole row of them in our camp."

Rochester laughed when he heard this.

The brief moment of relaxation was quickly interrupted by a roar, bringing the two back to the serious battlefield.

"Executioners, those executioners! Why didn't you shoot them? Why didn't you shoot them!"

On the other side of the trench, an old soldier was shouting.

Anton told Rochester that he was a farmer and had a deep affection for horses.

Despite the bright moonlight, Rochester still couldn't discern the source of the horses' sounds in the trenches.

The veteran, who came from a peasant background, roared angrily again, "Give them a shot! Give them a shot! Consider it helping them out!"

"We must save people first!" a voice responded.

Anton and Rochester stood up to see where the horse was. In the darkness, several men were carrying a stretcher. They saw an even larger mass of darkness moving behind it—the wounded horse.

Following closely behind were more wounded horses. They ran forward, fell, and continued running. Some horses had been shot in the stomach, their intestines spilling out, which tripped them up...

Rochester frowned upon seeing this and could no longer bear to watch.

Several players returned just in time to witness the process. Their initial joy at acquiring loot was quickly suppressed, and upon seeing such a tragic scene, their expressions turned even more unpleasant. It wasn't that they were unhappy, but rather that they felt a sense of disorientation—this was a real battlefield, not a game—this game was just too damn real.

The veteran stood up, raised his rifle, and aimed at the herd of horses. Another veteran, quick as a flash, pushed his rifle into the air with one hand. "Vasily! Are you crazy?! The other comrades are still over there! You! You!"

"I...I..." Vasily, the farmer's son and a staunch fighter of the "Redwitt Alliance," shed tears. He trembled as he put his gun down on the ground, then knelt down and covered his ears with his hands.

As the horses drew nearer, the wailing gradually turned into mournful cries, which could not be blocked even by covering one's ears.

The soldiers of the "Redvet Alliance," at least those in this trench, were truly faithful warriors, capable of enduring almost anything. But faced with this sound, they wanted to stand up and run away, wherever they could go, as long as they could no longer hear such howling.

In the darkness, several more stretchers appeared, and Regiment Commander Sokolov appeared, raising the pistol at his waist.

"Bang!"

After one gunshot, several more shots rang out.

"Bang! Bang!"

The horse lay curled up on the ground, trembling like a lump of flesh. After the gunshot, all was quiet, but it wasn't completely over. Some wounded horses were still running away, howling in pain.

Commander Sokolov continued firing, and several more shots rang out—several more horses fell to the ground—and the last horse, after the last shot, knelt on its two front hooves and spun around like a carousel.

No one knows what Sokolov's expression was; he left after firing the shot.

Vasily lowered his hands from his ears, leaving only a long, fading sigh in the air. He roared, "I tell you! Sending animals to the battlefield! It's the most despicable thing! The most disgusting thing! The most heinous crime!"

It was getting late, and Rochester's troops began to march back.

The players started discussing how to log off. It was almost noon for them, and it was time to go to work or do other things, so what they wanted to know most was how to log off.

Yes, they did have a campsite.

About ten kilometers behind this trench, a truck came to pick them up.

After a bumpy ride, they finally arrived at the rear, where a cook with a fat head was serving them food.

Everyone who passed by him received a very generous spoonful.

"You can actually eat in this game?!"

"Why do we have to eat in a game?!"

Players were roughly divided into the two camps mentioned above, but overall, most people were quite surprised and delighted to be able to eat – for these foodies, it was a pleasant surprise – even though the food they were eating was rather terrible.

In addition, Guo Ruhe is personally very interested in military rations. He often watches bloggers review canned military rations from World War I and World War II.

Black bread, buckwheat porridge, potato soup.

To be precise, this is their food ration for the entire day.

Rochester was starving, and no matter how awful the dark bread tasted, he should...

vomit!

Rochester held the black bread stuffed with sawdust and ate it with the oddly-tasting buckwheat porridge, barely managing to swallow it.

Players also voiced their complaints.

"This food really tastes... ugh!"

After Rochester finished his rations, he began to look around. It was more like another trench than a camp.

The intelligence system was activated at that moment, and a small house icon appeared on the minimap, right at his location.

[Temporary camp unlocked; you can rest and recuperate here.]

Players also saw this content.

"Alright, we'll rest here tonight," Rochester said to everyone present.

It must be said that although the players complained about the food, whether it was due to hunger or some other reason, they all ate all their rations before reluctantly logging off.

Logging off is relatively simple; I just went to sleep.

And that's the problem.

Battles are commonplace on the front lines; who will protect a player who falls asleep?!

It seems we still need to organize another group of non-player troops... A plan formed in Rochester's mind: he needed two companies. Since the former was already called the "Company of Benevolence," the latter would be called the "Company of Righteousness."

"Excuse me, are you Commander Rochester?" A thin figure slid into the trench, carrying a briefcase on his back. Judging from his appearance, he was a messenger.

"Yes, it's me," Rochester replied. He looked up and suddenly felt that the man looked familiar, as if he had seen him somewhere before. However, it would be somewhat impolite to ask his name abruptly, so Rochester first gave him a smile.

"Commander Rochester, please come with me. Regimental Commander Sokolov asked me to take you to headquarters to report."

At that time, the situation in Ukraine was complex. It faced the Black Army, the White Army, the Vistula Federation's army, various interventionist forces, and nationalist armed groups of all sizes. Communication lines were often cut off, which required messengers to personally cross the front lines to deliver information.

And that is precisely why the casualty rate of messengers is alarmingly high.

Rochester followed the messenger out of their camp. Before leaving, he briefed Anton on the situation, essentially telling him to keep the troops in order for the time being.

"Where is the command center?"

"Just a few kilometers away, Rochester in command," the messenger replied.

The two entered the trench, and Rochester spoke up at that moment, asking, "What's your name?"

"I?"

The messenger was visibly taken aback for a moment before replying, "My name is Golikov, Philip Ivanovich Golikov."

Rochester remembered the name: the future Field Marshal, the Director of the General Political Bureau of the Army and Navy, the man who rebuilt the military intelligence system after the Great Purge—that bald man!

Judging from his current appearance, Golikov's hair loss started quite early.

Rochester smiled. It was a good thing to meet him so early. Although it was still a long time before that person took the stage, as the number of players increased, he would inevitably be suspected. It was always good to get to know some capable people in advance. If he could recruit them into his own forces, that would be even better.

Out of curiosity, Rochester asked Golikov, "Golikov, do you know why we need to win this war?"

"We want to build a society without exploitation! Peace, land, and bread—I believe the 'Redwit Alliance' will create a just and equal new world, and I, along with countless other soldiers, am willing to fight for it!"

As Golikov spoke, the unease that had been on his face vanished completely.

"The Iron Leader brought us together through the 'Redwitt Alliance.'"

"But those enemies are unwilling to surrender! Imperialism is helping them!"

"Imperialist politicians enjoy wealth and honor, while our people live in extreme hardship and unbearable suffering. During the war, they provide ammunition and food, while we provide our children... After the war, they secure their power and obtain more food, while we search for our children's graves."

"Most of them were just a bunch of boys who thought they could beat giants. They didn't know that war was a smoke-filled conflict. It was also a battle between wheels and engines, filled with broken steel and poison gas that would melt your lungs. When we dug trenches, we would not only dig up dirt, but also legs, hands, skulls, helmets and all sorts of debris left over from the battle. That was the reality we faced."

"Therefore we must win this war."

"To build a new land of peace, so that our children will never have to fight in war again."

Rochester sighed inwardly, "Indeed, the beliefs of those who achieve great things later in life are different back then."

only...

[Acquire Intelligence - Iron Leader]

Rochester glanced at it, then closed it again. I roughly understood who it was.

As intelligence gradually expanded, Rochester's understanding of this world deepened. With the recovery of his memories, the map of this world's situation gradually became clearer. However, Rochester felt that something was not quite right. From his memories, the map seemed a bit strange.

How could the "Vistula Federation" include the location of the eastern Baltic coast, specifically Lithuania?!

While they were thinking, they had already entered another position—the position of the 3rd Battalion of the 7th Infantry Regiment led by Regiment Commander Sokolov.

But just as Rochester took a few steps in and saw the other soldiers, a "shh—" sound rang out behind him!

Turn your head and look!

A huge fireball shot into the sky!

"Take cover!" someone shouted. "Take cover—!"

The camp here had no obvious fortifications, or rather, trenches were under construction. It was next to a cemetery, with nowhere else to hide. In the darkness, Rochester stumbled and fled into the cemetery.

Countless shells flew over his head, the flames of the explosions illuminated the entire cemetery, and the distant woods were razed to the ground.

Clods of dirt the size of raindrops fell from the sky. With another explosion, a piece of shrapnel tore Rochester's sleeve. He rushed to check it; it had only grazed his skin, thankfully...

"Buzz—"

......

......

......

The impact of the shrapnel hitting his helmet nearly knocked Rochester unconscious for a moment. He wiped the dust from his eyes and vaguely saw a large crater explode in front of him—as the saying goes, shells rarely land in the same spot at the same time.

The fear of death sent his adrenaline soaring, and he lunged toward the crater, lying prone inside.