Story Reader / Main Story / 28 Polaris Bond / Story
This will be Schulz Roseum's last night in this trench. His mission is to travel 130km to deliver an assault plan to Fort Budleigh for the frontline garrison. He will set off at dawn in three hours. The horse is ready.
Got a cigarette? Or booze?
Schulz nudges the night watch soldier next to him and shakes the white metal flask in his hand. The metal is shining brightly beside the small campfire even in the dead of night.
Tsk... Huh?
The night watch soldier takes the flask from Schulz, quickly checks it, and stuffs it into his tattered backpack.
Only half a bottle left. I don't know what's in it. See for yourself.
The soldier turns around and hands Schulz a different glass bottle half-filled with a brownish-yellow liquid. It has no label.
The strong smell of cheap caramel mixed with strong alcohol stings Schulz's nose. The smell also tells him that it is good for warming the body in the depths of winter.
Schulz pops the cork without another thought and gulps it down. After a long pause, he exhales deeply, leans against the cold trench, and squats down next to the night watch soldier.
Damn...
This stuff is awful. It tastes like gasoline, but at least it warms me up.
Do you still want a cigarette?
No, thanks, I don't want to set myself on fire.
Then I'll have one.
The night watch soldier fishes out a crumpled cigarette from a paper pack in his pocket. He takes out a shiny silver lighter that clearly isn't his. He carefully shields the flame with his coat and lights the cigarette.
Soon, a dim red glow begins to flicker by the campfire.
Sigh... say.
Hum?
This brandy sure tastes awful.
Yeah.
Give me one.
You want one?
The night watch soldier gives Schulz the paper pack.
This one's on me. Just don't set yourself on fire.
Don't worry. I won't light it.
Schulz takes a similarly crumpled cigarette from the pack and keeps it between his teeth.
Hey, Henry...
William.
Huh?
I mean I'm William, not Henry.
Isn't it Henry's turn tonight?
He died in the morning attack.
Or I wouldn't have these cigarettes.
Schulz clicks his tongue and spits out a few bits of tobacco from his mouth.
What about Joshua?
He's all over the place.
William continues to stare at the campfire. The dim red glow at his lips flickers silently.
Schulz has witnessed many ways to go. Henry might have been shot during the morning attack and dropped dead outside some trench. Joshua probably took a direct hit from a 152mm howitzer and was blown into pieces.
If Schulz's shovel hadn't hit something brittle and soft while digging the trench a few days ago, before the battle began, he might never have found little John buried naked in the snow.
If you didn't get quinine from a medic in time during the summer rainy season, you might end up like Ben, who collapsed in the thick mud while shivering and got chewed up bit by bit by rats hiding in the trenches.
One good thing about winter is that you don't have to worry about rats. Even rats struggle to survive in the freezing trenches.
****, it's really cold.
Yeah, it took a lot of work just to get Joshua off the machine gun barrel.
It'll be better at dawn.
Yeah.
Another silence.
Alcohol burned and washed through Schulz's stomach. He starts thinking about the hot coffee, mouth-watering food, steaming bathwater, and soft beds in Fort Budleigh.
They must be living the life. That's for sure. Even in wartime, life in the city must be much better than at the frontlines.
No one wants to be on the freezing front. Sometimes there's not enough ammo. Sometimes there aren't enough men, but waves after waves of telegram come nonstop.
The big shots in Fort Budleigh only order troops around, while Schulz's group had already split into three airborne regiments and two armored divisions toward the south.
What chills Schulz more than the freezing weather is the fact that their group's radio station was blown to bits in an artillery strike four days ago.
That's why Schulz's ground forces have been holding this 20-km deep defense line all alone for over 70 hours.
He must deliver the assault plan to the command center in Fort Budleigh because continuing to defend this spot is pointless.
Schulz clicks his tongue again, spits out a few more bits of tobacco, and gives William back the almost empty brandy bottle.
Alright, I'm off.
The cold air rushes into his lungs, scarred by pneumonia. The air mixes with the heavy scent of alcohol and turns hot again before dissipating in the trenches.
Hey.
What?
Shouldn't we break through?
Yeah.
I'm going to deliver a message to the officers in Budleigh.
Schulz takes out a letter sealed with scarlet wax from his chest pocket. The commander did mention a breakout when assigning him the task, but the commander secretly emphasized the need to keep this message confidential.
Oh...
The scarlet wax looks even redder under the flickering campfire.
Hmm... wait.
What is... that?
Schulz pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to make out the blurry spot in the distance and the bright red speck rising slowly in the sky.
A flare...
It's a flare!
Enemy attack!
His roar shattered the silent winter night. Shrieks of shells being fired and the crack of bullets immediately followed.
Schulz knows exactly what those shrieks mean...
Bullets whiz past Schulz, hitting the frozen ground and creating scattered, uneven pits.
William!
William can't seem to hear Schulz. He grabs his rifle and starts fending off the enemy advancing under the cover of darkness along with his comrades pouring out of the trench.
Schulz struggles to suppress his urge to pick up his gun.
In two days, his unit would launch a breakthrough. The command center will send support from the other side or they would be wiped out.
But now they're under a night ambush. Schulz doesn't know if the attack will last two and a half hours, but he must set off immediately.
He must deliver the breakout message to the command center in Fort Budleigh, no matter what.
Go, go now!
You can't die here.
William!
Schulz tries to call out to William again, but William is nowhere to be seen. Shouting is meaningless.
We're out of time.
Schulz quickly checks his ammo and supplies. He clutches the assault plan signed by the commander in his chest pocket.
Run!
He hasn't seen any enemy, but the continuous artillery and gunfire echo in his mind, telling him to stay away.
More comrades continue to leave the trenches. They are heading in the same direction. Schulz passes by them. His shoulder and gunstock crash into something, hurting him, but he doesn't care.
Luckily, no one notices him going in the opposite direction. Nobody is calling the enforcement squad to take him out.
Sorry... I'm sorry...
The narrow trench is now filled with soldiers as if they are in a queue heading to the grave of war.
Move! Get out of the way!
Time seems to be moving in slow motion. The world spins in his eyes at a bizarre speed before slamming him onto the ground.
Under his face is a boot, above it a knee, and then... nothing.
He searches for a support but touches something warm, wet, and wrinkled. It's not a good leverage point. He flails his arm and finally finds something else to grab onto.
It's probably another boot, but it doesn't seem to match the one with the knee.
He struggles to stand. The cold soil sent flying by the shells melts into muddy snow on his face, which is soon covered in other people's blood.
He is confused because he should be in the trench, not on flat ground.
Air raid! Air raid!
Shoot them down! Shoot those bastards down!
Get down!
That was Schulz Roseum's last memory before waking up at the smell of salt in the POW camp hospital. Another shell exploded just 10m away. The blast wave flipped him around again.
He isn't as lucky as the protagonists in those light novels. He'll never get to lie on the battlefield and gaze at the stars.
He was buried face down in the cold soil.
There were no stars that night, anyway.
Surgery...
Need more... but... we... send...
The explosion echoing in his mind turns into a sharp buzzing. He can barely figure out that he is in a tent, surrounded by people in white.
...What... enemy...
As... send... those people... he...
Enemy... comrade... good.
It's all up to you...
...Two years... it's up to you...
Of course...
...End... the war...
No... start.
A figure in white pries his eyes open and waves a flashlight back and forth.
After making sure he is fine, the person signals to someone outside the tent...
Since then, Schulz never saw this place that he couldn't even remember again or hear the voice of the doctor who pointed a flashlight in his eyes.
He was bagged, dragged out of the room, tied up, and chucked into an open truck. He nearly froze to death before he saw light again.
The "warmth" of the POW camp soon found him.
Schulz worried he'd be transferred to the frontlines as "tools" to clear land mines at first, but he soon realized the camp was more humane than he thought.
Apart from roll calls three times a day and some mandatory gatherings, the camp is surprisingly peaceful. Schulz has never read the "Convention on the Treatment of POW", but needless to say, it is nice!
Fortunately, the sealed assault plan signed by his commander was not confiscated by the guards.
The only downside is that in the two months, he received no news of any of his comrades.
Got a cigarette? Or booze?
It is a sunny day. The prisoners are in the square at the designated time. A pockmarked man across from him claims to be Deputy General Leibowitz. He does look like a general.
Schulz judged his status by the quality of his cigarette. It has a delicate filter and good flavor.
No.
Hey, I don't know why, but I haven't seen any of my comrades here...
Huh?
You see, this camp is pretty big, right?
Even people with status like you are here, with grunts like me.
But why haven't I seen any of my comrades...
Which unit are you from?
Schulz glances warily at Leibowitz but chooses to trust his fine cigarette.
57th Infantry Division, 2nd Motorized Brigade, Eastern Defense Line of Fort Budleigh.
Oh...
Huh?
What's wrong?
Third Army, 57th Infantry Division?
Yes.
That can't be right...
That unit... was disbanded three years ago.
Three years ago? Impossible!
I've only been in this camp for two months! Our brigade was planning a breakout with the division HQ two months ago!
Are you the Deputy General or am I?
You're from the 57th Infantry Division?
What do you think?
You over there!
A camp guard with a rifle shouts while looking at Leibowitz and Schulz.
No whispering!
Leibowitz stops talking, gives Schulz a look, and leaves his seat reluctantly.
Schulz also says no more. He stands up, brushes the dust off his pants, and walks to the other side of the sunlight.
(What's going on...)
(Disbanded three years ago? But I got a mission from the commander just two months ago!)
(What is going on?)
Schulz squints at the barbed wire on the high walls blurred by the sunlight, feeling powerless for the first time in his life.
It soon feels like some power is manipulating the clock and tearing away the calendar pages one by one.
Two years fly by just like that.
Schulz never saw Leibowitz again after that day and he soon forgot about the old man's ridiculous claims.
Here, he learned to play bridge, football, and boxing with his fellow inmates. He even organized a modest sports meet.
Some prisoners followed the military manuals and tried to escape again and again. Some were shot dead while others were transferred to different POW camps.
Schulz never tried to escape. He didn't see the point of a soldier like himself trying to escape when he was surrounded by a bunch of officers.
He also started to accept the fact that he had failed his mission.
Maybe his comrades have made it out just fine.
He keeps telling himself.
But a voice deep down continues to prick at his heart, the same way the crimson wax seal on the letter that should have been delivered back then burns at him.
Schulz?
Cough... John.
Schulz quickly and quietly slips the letter back into his inner pocket before John gets to the desk.
Come on, it's roll call time.
Can't believe you're slower than me.
It was just some personal...
Air raid!
300kg's worth of highly explosive bombs whistle down, drowning out the camp's faint hand-cranked air raid alarm. The whistle ends in a deafening explosion.
The barracks' windows with wooden frames shatter instantly. Sharp glass shards cut into Schulz's arms as he shields his head. Nothing is left of the bouquet of snowball flowers he arranged just yesterday.
But this is not the time to think about that.
Live!
Run!
Schulz grabs the collar of the stunned lad beside him and they scramble out of the barrack.
The bombs seem to have landed less than 100m from their barrack, but they don't have time to figure out where the bombs landed exactly.
More bombs soon follow, whistling down from the overcast sky.
Three bombers swoop overhead seconds after they leave the barracks. That's when Schulz sees the true killers—the small "bottles" falling from the bombers' bays.
Incendiary bombs!
Within mere seconds, the room they were just in is engulfed in flames.
The internal explosives ignite the magnesium-aluminum particles, which in turn ignite a mix of gasoline and white phosphorus that splatter in all directions.
On the wooden barracks, the ground, the iron fences, the machine gun nests, the exposed flesh and fat, the scorched blood and skin, 1200-degree flames flow over like a boiling river.
And this is just the first wave of attack.
This... this...
Get outside! Now!
If these explosives and incendiary bombs are targeting the camp itself, running away from the river of blood and fire is the only way to survive.
But... where to?
Another highly explosive bomb blows up by the camp near the mountain, turning the tall stone wall into rubbles.
The second wave of bombing is here.
Outside, you idiot!
Amidst the human, bomb, and plane shrieks and the roar of makeshift anti-aircraft guns, Schulz has to shout at the top of his lungs for John to hear him.
He doesn't know why he cares about the life of this guy he has known for just two and a half days. His instincts tell him they have to survive together.
Probably not gonna hurt to save one more person.
Help...
A wrinkled, pale hand grabs Schulz's boot.
The guard's uniform is glued to his body in fat and blood, turning into an eerie color. He is lying on the ground. Where his left leg should have been is now a burning, white bone that's still sizzling.
Tsk...
Leave him!
Run!
Schulz grits his teeth and kicks the hand away before turning around to kick the guard over with his foot. Schulz picks up the gun still attached to a detached hand.
What is now on Schulz's boot is no longer blood but melted fat.
Go!
The two men, one tall and one short, dash across the boiling river of fire.
The guard lies motionless and silent. A bullet buries into the ground after piercing through his skull.
You're awake.
Schulz tries to move but fails. The ropes bind firmly him onto the chair despite the messy knots.
An orange spotlight is shining directly on his face. He can only see a shadow moving past him before it disappears into the light.
****... What's going on...
His body is trembling slightly from either fear, anger, or cold. He fails to break himself free, so he bears the pain and curses at the other side of the light.
Name.
Where am I?
Name.
Who are you people?!
Name.
...
The voice behind the light is extremely calm as if nothing can stir up any emotion in it.
No, they can't possibly be his ally.
He was just a grunt with a rifle. He never picked a fight with anyone. He didn't even argue with the recruitment officer who ignored his pneumonia record.
Name.
Schulz Roseum...
Unit number.
**** you.
Unit number.
Schulz stays silent.
The apathetic interrogation and surroundings are warning Schulz of his situation. He is now in enemy hands.
But he can't remember anything else. His last memory was him struggling through a dark, damp forest with a rookie named John.
He was leading the way with a machete he had found. John was following him. Everything after that is a blur.
(The letter!)
Since the headquarters has lost contact with the command unit for over 80 hours and received no breakout or hold orders, we will break out from the south at 3 AM on January 18 to preserve our forces...
That's not right.
The breakout was at least two years ago. No one would care about such outdated intel now.
Unit number.
Unless... Did John betray me?
These are the only two possibilities.
The voice in the bright light in front of him remains cold. Soon, a slightly older voice joins in from the same direction.
You probably know that we're gonna find out anyway even if you don't talk. It's just a matter of time.
I have nothing to say to you bastards.
Why are you so loyal when you're just an ordinary soldier?
We just want to know your unit number and the details of this letter.
A tall figure walks up to Schulz and carefully lays a barely recognizable piece of paper on the table in front of him.
Schulz immediately recognizes the item before him.
I don't know what this is.
The letter is still tightly sealed. The crimson wax is still glistening in the light.
We found this on you.
I don't know what this is.
We'll find out.
Why don't you just open it then?
Don't you want to know what's inside?
...
You might not die.
Soldier.
Someone else seems to have entered the room. It's likely another soldier, judging by the smell of ammo and gun oil.
They untie the ropes on Schulz, unlock his handcuffs, free his hands, and then file out of the room.
The man who placed the envelope in front of Schulz walks up again and puts a hand on Schulz's shoulder.
You have the power to choose.
The man gestures for another person in the room to leave.
When the creak of the door hinges sounds once more, Schulz is alone in the iron room.
(What the hell...)
Schulz calms down and tries to piece together the situation but makes no progress.
Neither the hellish POW camp nor his desperate scramble eastward during the past few days with John can explain why he is here.
John wouldn't betray me... would he?
No, he was also captured and taken to that camp, so the enemy must have caught him, too.
What if...
Schulz stares intently at the letter sealed with scarlet wax on the table.
But it's been over two years...
Third Army, 57th Infantry Division?
They must have broken out by now...
That unit was disbanded three years ago?
That is simply impossible.
The words of the bearded old man who called himself Leibowitz echo in his mind.
It feels like something eerie is watching him through the letter.
Damn it.
Schulz spits to the side and rips off the scarlet wax...
The surgery is done.
We need more time for confirmation, but we can't afford it. We're going to send him off as soon as he's ready.
As for what he will do, the enemy will have plans for him.
He'll be sent in as our spy and they'll take care of him.
Old enemies turn into allies, and former allies turn into enemies. Perfect.
All thanks to your surgery.
We cut out the last two years of his memory. He'll think everything happened yesterday, but it'll be down to your orders in the end.
Of course, no problem.
Will he end this war?
No, the war has just started.
A figure in white pries his eyes open and waves a flashlight back and forth.
Got any more booze? Or a cigarette?
The weather is clear with good visibility.
Radio readings are normal. No enemies in sight from "Dagar"...
Thanks, "Dagar". You can return to the base now...
No problem. Happy hunting, boys.
We can see the plains by the foothills! 20km to go!
Pull down, pull down!
Follow the order. "Diode", you're up first.
Let's send those treacherous bastards to hell.
Two years... have passed?
Has the war ended?
If I'm the enemy, then are my comrades my enemies?
Or are my enemies my real enemies?
So who am I?
Hold on...
The envelope hasn't been fully opened.
The scarlet wax melts in his hand. It begins to twist and, like blood, flow into him and into the letter.
Pain sears his hands like they are being burned by fire, but he continues to fish out the letter from the gushing crimson blood as if he is possessed by a demon.
You do it!
War
Famine
Plague
Death
Who can hold on when Galilean arrives?
Go on, my child.
Do as I say.
This will be Schulz Roseum's last night in this trench. His mission is to travel 130km to deliver an assault plan to Fort Budleigh for the frontline garrison. He will set off at dawn in three hours. The horse is ready.
Got a cigarette? Or some booze...
