c1: What a Joke Fate Plays

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His eyes snapped open. A grey, biplane fighter emblazoned with an Iron Cross thundered through the low sky. Tongues of flame spat from the plane’s nose; it was clearly strafing a target.

With the sharp howl of air friction, bullets slammed into sandbags, kicking up dirt and forcing him to squint.

You’ve got to be kidding me, he thought, a bitter smile on his face. I get transported through time just for substitute teaching a world history class? All I did was mention a few successful battle tactics of the German army. Was that enough to throw me onto a real battlefield? Gu Changge didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Just a few minutes ago, he was standing on the lecture stage at Tsinghua University. As a promising young teaching assistant, he was passionately describing the immense power of the German war machine, all while sneaking a wink at the pretty girl in the middle of the second row.

The tragedy was: his attention lapsed, he stepped on a faulty power strip, and just like that, bid farewell to his wonderful yet obscure life.

The good news was that Gu Changge wasn’t dead. The bad news was that he had been transported into the body of a German soldier who spoke with the thick accent of the Ruhr industrial region. He had no idea if he was handsome or not, but he knew this new body was much taller and broader than his original one. Unfortunately, on a battlefield where bullets were flying everywhere, that wasn’t exactly good news.

Looking down at the Mauser Model 1898 standard-issue rifle in his hands, he figured his rank couldn’t be very high. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to read rank insignia on shoulder boards, but this unlucky body was wrapped in a military greatcoat. Judging by the scorched hole and dried bloodstains on the chest, Gu Changge knew this coat was, in all likelihood, stripped from a corpse.

As Gu Changge was trying to figure out the time and place, and just as he was about to turn over to see the defensive line ahead, a German soldier screamed at him.

“Akado! You idiot! Ammo! Get me some ammo!” The voice was hoarse and carried a distinct Austrian accent. Only then did Akado realize he was next to a machine gun nest. Two German soldiers were manning a Maxim heavy machine gun, desperately firing at the front.

He had no time for anything else. He quickly turned to find the ammunition. On the other side of his prone body, several long ammunition belts were scattered around an open ammo crate.

He clumsily grabbed a belt and, after a few shuffles on the ground, handed it to the assistant gunner in the trench who was responsible for loading the weapon. Without even a moment to catch his breath, Akado immediately rolled away.

God as his witness, staying next to a heavy machine gun nest was suicide. The enemy’s small-caliber mortars made these positions their primary targets. Based on lessons learned from the Second World War, a heavy machine gun nest should relocate after being exposed for 30 seconds.

Who knew how long this one had been firing? It was better to get far away. If the enemy decided to suppress them with heavy fire, a single shell wouldn’t care if you were the machine gunner or not.

Before Akado could roll far, explosions began to erupt all around him. The bastards on the other side were returning fire, and they were using none other than small-caliber mortar shells.

“You sons of bitches! Can’t you aim any better?” Akado wanted to cry out. “I was already ten meters away and I still got hit by the blast!”

It seemed the weapons and technology of this First World War had some distinct differences from the Second World War he was familiar with. The great powers really did advance one step at a time; no one got powerful overnight.

When the sound of the artillery gradually faded, Akado looked back at the machine gun nest. It was still spitting fire; his two comrades were unharmed and continuing to slaughter the enemy.

“Are you kidding me? Am I the butt of the joke?” Akado’s desire to cry instantly turned into exasperation.

He quickly crawled backward several meters, retreating into the infantry trench. Figuring the machine gun nest could hold on for a few more minutes with the ammo he’d just delivered, Akado had to prioritize his own survival.

Since the dawn of time-travel stories, the hero either wakes up on a battlefield to find the fight is over and he’s miraculously survived, or he lands in a peaceful era with three to five years to develop technology and make his mark. How many were so unlucky as to be thrown directly onto the front lines to get pummeled?

Akado felt like he was being singled out. Finally, he felt the tips of his boots find empty air. He knew the trench was right behind him. He rolled over and tumbled in. The form was ugly, but on the battlefield, anyone who sticks their head up is an idiot—those heroes in war movies who stand on high ground, brandishing a pistol and shouting, never lived to see the end credits.

“Oh, hell!” Akado fell face-first into the trench with a mouthful of mud. A First World War trench was nothing like he had imagined. It was nearly two and a half meters deep and filled with almost thirty centimeters of sewage.

The fall left him completely dazed. It was only after his head stopped spinning that he remembered WWI trenches were dug nearly three meters deep—sometimes even five—to withstand heavy artillery. He knew this fact, but it had completely slipped his mind at the critical moment.

“Akado, you idiot! The enemy isn’t even charging, and you’re already this scared,” Akado heard a comrade’s “greeting” as he staggered to his feet, trying to maintain some dignity while looking for his rifle.

“Shells!” Before Akado could find the soldier who had spoken, someone shouted a warning. A group of soldiers who had been watching him immediately pressed themselves against the trench wall. Akado forgot about his rifle, threw his arms over his head, and scurried into a corner like a cornered rat, curling into a ball.

Thump. Thump. Two muffled impacts sounded nearby. They didn’t sound like fully detonating shells. Akado remained quiet in his corner for a few seconds. The time was short, but immensely important, because he was cycling through a series of words. Yes, words.

First World War… German defensive position… quiet shells… not duds, because they made a sound, just not a loud one… what kind of shells are quiet? Curled into a ball, Akado looked at the equipment he was carrying.

A long bayonet, a dented canteen, a large canvas bag for odds and ends, and a cylindrical canister for a gas mask. He was well-equipped… Wait a minute. Gas mask… quiet shells? FUCK! THOSE BASTARDS!

He fumbled to open the canister, pulled out what appeared to be a new gas mask, and desperately began to pull it over his head. As he did, he could already smell a strange, mustard-like odor.

His nasal passages felt like they did during a bad cold and began to fill with mucus. Holding his breath, Akado finally secured the mask. Through the blurry lenses, the world became distorted. A thick, faintly colored smoke enveloped the area. The sounds of crying, screaming, vomiting, and cursing came from all directions. Akado began to walk, step by step, toward a ladder not far away.

It was impossible to climb the two-meter-plus wall of the trench; having just learned his lesson, Akado wasn’t going to be that stupid twice. Why not run? Try running in a gas mask—especially a poor-quality one. Your breathing will hitch, forcing you to rip the mask off, which would be suicide.

As he walked, Akado pulled a scarf from his miscellaneous bag and wrapped it around his right hand. The back of his left hand, which he had used to do this, was already bright red and starting to itch.

Mustard gas. Akado knew it was a lethal chemical agent—simple and brutal, a real-life “Thousand Ways to Die.” It ravaged the skin, eyes, and respiratory tract. It was the perfect tool for murder, arson, and all-around mayhem.

By the time Akado reached the ladder, it was surrounded by a heap of unlucky souls. In this era, poison gas was a terrifying novelty. Even if the officers repeatedly stressed its danger, even if every man was issued a gas mask, and even if the company and platoon commanders had personally taught them how to wear one—there were still those who didn’t bring them, those who forgot them, and those who couldn’t put them on in time.

As Akado climbed the ladder, someone below grabbed his boot. He could even feel a hand slapping at his foot, but he didn’t dare stop. He had no ability to save anyone; staying meant dying with them. His only hope lay in getting far away.

When he climbed out of the trench, the area had fallen mostly silent. The gas mask was extremely uncomfortable. Some men had run for a few dozen meters before they couldn’t stand it anymore and tore their masks off. With their accelerated metabolism and faster heart rates, they died all the more quickly.

In the thinning smoke, Akado felt a dull pain in his left hand. Blisters were probably already forming. But still, he didn’t dare run. He could only force himself to walk backward, step by step. He didn’t want to die. Not here, not in the cold.

Tears streamed down his face. He knew it was because his eyes were irritated. Fortunately, he had put his mask on quickly enough that his eyes, though stimulated, were not yet blinded. His nasal passages were as uncomfortable as a bad cold, but it wasn’t a major issue. Though his breathing was labored, he could still get the oxygen his body needed. The smoke was very thin now; he had to be near the edge of the gas cloud.

Although his exposed left hand was in pain and covered in swelling blisters, it was also more sensitive. Akado felt a faint breeze—and in that moment, he almost cried out in relief. The wind direction… was favorable.

It seemed heaven didn’t intend for Akado to die again just a few minutes after his arrival. After walking a few dozen more steps, a gust of wind blew past, and the faint traces of poison gas finally dissipated.

There were living people on the ground now. The screams grew closer, more numerous, and more vigorous. This was something to be thankful for—after countless had died, to still have the strength to scream was a true blessing.

“My eyes! Oh God! My eyes! I can’t see!” a young soldier screamed, clutching his face. Akado happened to be walking past him.

“Grab my shoulder. I’ll lead you out of this hellhole,” Akado said kindly, his voice muffled by the gas mask.

The soldier clung to him as if he were a lifeline. “Thank you, thank you,” he stammered.

“Everyone grab the person in front! I’ll lead the way! I can see! Follow me! Left, right, left!” Akado shouted with all his might. Though his voice was distorted by the mask, many others stumbled towards the sound. Some began to help shout, and the long line of soldiers grew into a spectacular, unseen procession.

“You are a fine soldier! An example for us all! To be so calm during your first gas attack!” The soldier behind Akado said, having regained a sliver of courage as they walked. When Akado had helped him up, he had seen the man’s rank: a Corporal.

As they walked, Akado introduced himself. “Hello, Corporal. I am a Private. My name is Akado, Akado Rudolph.”

“It is my honor,” the young man behind him replied politely. “My name is Adolf Hitler. I am a Corporal.”