That night, the whole outpost gathered around as a priest stepped forward and began a prayer, "O' Father, we now send these brave boys into your hands. They are not wicked, for they served what mattered most to them. May you grant them peace, and let them rest without pain or fear. Amen."
When the priest finished, everyone echoed a solemn "amen." Then, slowly, he set fire to the coffins. Flames leapt from one to another, spreading coffin by coffin until a roaring wall of fire rose before them, painting the faces of the crowd with flickering light and shadow.
They stood there in silence for what felt like hours, feeling the heat and smoke brush against their faces, before the crowd finally began to drift away. Much had changed since they first arrived at the outpost. A rookie had informed them that the machines were called Eisenkriecher—Ironcrawlers—the German army's attempt to build its own type of "tank" after the British war machine. The very idea of these enormous moving weapons had both awed and terrified them.
The outpost was meant to serve only as a temporary line of defense, in case British troops pushed forward, which, so far, had not happened. Reinhard often wandered among the machines, circling them and staring at the intricate mechanics up close. The sight was horrifying. At least ten Ironcrawlers stood in a line, their hulking forms poised and ready for battle. He could not imagine the destruction they might bring upon the British or French forces. Sooner or later, the tides of war would shift, and he wondered if anyone could survive such a confrontation.
After the funeral, Reinhard returned to his bunk, weighed down by grief and dread. He prepared for bed slowly, almost reluctantly, as if every movement reminded him of the bodies he had left behind. The moment he finally collapsed onto the mattress, exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted into sleep, leaving the gory and horrific thoughts of the day behind him, if only for a few hours.
That night, the warning horns blared across the outpost. The sound ripped through the cold air, and every man awoke in a panic, hearts pounding with fear and confusion. The same officer who had given Reinhard and Ernst their badges burst into the barracks, shouting urgently that an attack was underway. They dressed as quickly as they could, grabbed their rifles, and hurried outside to face whatever was coming.
Each man took position behind an embrasure, carefully aiming their rifles through the narrow holes in the wall. Reinhard jogged over to Ernst, joining him, feeling the tension in every muscle. Explosions from British tanks echoed through the air, each shot shaking the ground and tearing massive chunks out of the stone walls. Around them, men stood frozen with anxiety, terror etched into their faces, uncertain of what would come next.
Behind them, Reinhard could hear the engines and motors of the Ironcrawlers powering on, their mechanical roars vibrating through the earth. Soon, an entire line of them stood ready behind the gates, rolling forward one by one with frightening precision. Each massive war machine, armed with three cannons and two machine guns, prepared to clash with the British's armored vehicles. Reinhard knew, with a sinking feeling in his chest, that the chances of survival were slim for both sides.
Through the gun-loophole, he watched the Ironcrawlers move side by side, their thick armor gleaming in the firelight, and then unleash their firepower on the advancing British. Every shot left behind a smoldering wreck of a tank or a shredded group of soldiers. The Germans stood silently, listening to the agonized screams of their enemies and the thunderous crashes of exploding machines. But soon, the British began to fight back, their resolve hardening.
The British adjusted their tactics. Instead of advancing in neat parallel lines, they scattered through the forest, weaving between trees for cover. One after another, the Ironcrawlers were struck—some collapsing, others erupting in fire and smoke from direct hits. British soldiers began to inch closer to the outpost.
Sensing the danger, officers shouted, "Fire at will!" from every corner. The outpost erupted into a deafening storm of gunfire and explosions, so loud that no one could hear the man next to them.
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Only three or four Ironcrawlers remained. They quickly adapted, mimicking the British's forest-skirmish tactic. Using their mechanical legs, they sprinted through the trees, dodging bullets and firing from every angle. It was imperfect, but effective; the British slowly began to retreat. When their armored vehicles were destroyed, the Ironcrawlers pursued them relentlessly, shooting anything that moved until the forest fell silent and fog crept over the battlefield.
Finally, a single Ironcrawler emerged from the mist—badly damaged, battered, but still victorious. The Germans erupted in cheers, knowing they had survived another day soaked in blood. Reinhard could not help but join in as they rushed to the gates to meet the last standing Ironcrawler.
The eight crew-members opened the hatch, descending carefully down the mechanical ladder one by one. They were greeted with shouts of relief and praise, medics rushing in to check on their injuries. Hours later, the crowd had dispersed, leaving the battered Ironcrawler standing alone in the center of the outpost.
The next morning, all men were ordered to report to the gates. Trucks rolled in, one after another, until over a hundred were lined up neatly in rows. Soldiers whispered nervously among themselves, speculating on what awaited them next.
An officer climbed onto a wooden podium and spoke through a megaphone:"It is time, comrades! We are being relocated to a new position. The Kaiser is proud of your stand and the work you have done. Each company will line up under its commanding officer. Well done, men!"
He then stepped down from the podium stairs.
Reinhard, remembering that he was now the divisions commander or rather of a five-hundred-man company, he still were confused of why he was ranked as the divisional commander when he was an company commander, after all if he were the divisional commander Reinhard would no longer be on the front. With help from his NCOs, it took until mid-afternoon to load the entire outpost onto the trucks.
Sitting beside Ernst near the entrance, Reinhard watched as fifty men struggled to haul the lone surviving Ironcrawler onto a heavy transport vehicle.
Finally, the engines roared to life. One by one, the trucks rolled out through the gates. Behind them, the painted Iron Cross on the outpost wall was obliterated by bombs and fire, the air thick with smoke and debris as structures scattered into the surrounding forest.
The blast shook the truck violently, some rookies screaming in panic, but Reinhard held his ground. After what felt like half an hour, the firestorm faded, leaving the sky clear once more. Reinhard let out a long, exhausted sigh and drifted back to sleep.
The truck screeched to a halt, hurling everyone forward. Reinhard woke with a jolt, banging his head against the wall. Some men cursed the driver for reckless handling, but Reinhard ignored them.
When he peered outside, they had arrived in a wide, grassy field—untouched by war. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt soft earth beneath his boots and breathed the crisp, clean air. It was almost unreal.
As he turned, he saw three gigantic steel birds standing tall, their wings spread horizontally, heads pointed skyward. The men gathered around in awe, whispering excitedly about the machines. Reinhard already knew—they were new German war machines.
Newspapers quickly circulated among the men, handed out by local boys. The headlines revealed that the Ironcrawler was not the first of its kind. The German Empire had built a dozen different designs—some with continuous tracks, others with rounded metal fronts armed with machine guns, and even suicidal mechanical "rats" that exploded when they reached enemy trenches.
For Reinhard, it was evident: the war had gone too far. It was no longer about land or resources—it was about power.
According to the papers, Britain, France, Russia, and other European powers were building their own "war beasts," but none matched the Germans'. The only vehicle capable of crossing No Man's Land successfully was the British Mark IV tank—but it lacked speed and agility.
Nearby, a fully prepared trench system stretched across the field, ready for full combat. It was far more advanced than any Reinhard had seen before—reinforced wooden planks, deep underground ration stores, artillery bunkers, and machine guns positioned at least three feet apart. Barbed wire coiled along the top, leaving only narrow gaps for a single man to pass.
Reinhard scanned the field as his company hesitated. Standing tall, he shouted over the confusion, "Fill the trenches! Move it!"
The men at the front responded immediately, scurrying into position, with the rest following quickly behind.
Hours later, as dusk fell, Reinhard finally found an empty spot beside Ernst, who was quietly reading a small novel. He slouched against the trench wall and let out a deep sigh. New recruits chattered excitedly, some whispering that he and Ernst were as inexperienced as they were. Reinhard ignored them, refusing to become the harsh officer his company once had.
Instead, he looked up at the darkening sky and let life move forward, as it always would.