Chapter 327: Christmas is Coming

After such an accident, the opposite Britannian position was definitely on guard, and night reconnaissance naturally couldn’t continue.

So Morin and Sergeant Fischer returned to the trench.

After Sergeant Fischer cooed a few times, the same cooing sound came from the trench.

This meant the soldiers inside also knew their own patrol had returned.

The moment they returned to their own trench, the oppressive feeling as if their whole bodies were covered with cold, wet mud slightly receded.

Morin also leaned against the wooden support pillar of the communication trench, breathing heavily.

Although the experience in the no-man’s land just now was only twenty short minutes, he absolutely didn’t want to do it a second time.

“Sir!”

Kleist almost popped out from a nearby bunker.

The expression on the face of this usually calm regimental adjutant was so complex it could be called “splendid.”

There was the relief of seeing the commander return safely, mixed with the inner conflict of wanting to scold him but having to hold back due to the superior-subordinate relationship.

“If you had come back five minutes later, I really would have called General Mackensen…”

Kleist kept a straight face, emphasizing the word “really” heavily.

“Alright, Ewald, don’t put on that man-eating expression.”

Morin took the hot towel handed by the orderly and wiped off the soot smeared on his face while saying: “Indeed encountered enemies, but the other side didn’t want to fight either, everyone had a good tacit understanding.”

Kleist sighed, ultimately saying no more.

At the same time, several cooks carrying rifles walked over with several steaming military mess tins.

This was a “special meal” specifically prepared for the soldiers executing the night reconnaissance mission.

“Meat and potato stew, sir!”

The leading squad leader of the cooks was a fat man. Although frontline supplies were not yet scarce, being able to maintain this figure in this environment was simply a miracle.

He deftly scooped a large spoonful of thick broth into the mess tin and handed it to Morin.

“Just out of the pot, added double portions of lard and bacon.”

Morin took the mess tin, nodded, and thanked him.

The aluminum wall of the tin was scalding hot. That heat spread through his palm to his whole body, making him shudder involuntarily.

He brought it to his mouth and carefully took a sip.

To be honest, this fat cook’s culinary skills were quite average. The potatoes weren’t fully peeled and weren’t stewed until soft, and the salty flavor of the bacon hadn’t melted into the soup.

Moreover, to increase calories, too much fatty meat was added, making it a bit greasy to drink.

But in this freezing late-night trench where one could lose their life at any time, this mouthful of hot soup sliding down the esophagus into the stomach was more intoxicating than any delicacy.

A warm current exploded instantly, driving away the chill in the joints.

“Phew…” Morin let out a long breath, white mist spreading in front of his face.

Then he didn’t continue drinking. Instead, he turned around and handed the still-steaming mess tin in his hand to Sergeant Fischer, who was also drinking thick soup beside him.

“Take it, you guys share it.”

Fischer was stunned for a moment. A trace of panic flashed across that stubbly, mud-spotted face, “Sir, this… this portion is for you…”

“Drink when I tell you to drink, why so much nonsense.”

Morin directly stuffed the mess tin into his arms. His tone allowed no doubt but wasn’t harsh.

“I’m a Lieutenant Colonel, and you’re worrying about my food… You guys eat more meat to nourish your bodies.”

Holding the scalding mess tin, feeling the temperature transmitted through the tinplate, Fischer didn’t decline again.

He divided the thick soup into the bowls of the other soldiers who went out for reconnaissance with him, and specially gave the few pieces of bacon to the youngest soldier.

Soon, slurping sounds of drinking soup rang out in the corner, accompanied by occasional low-voiced conversations and satisfied sighs.

Morin leaned against the damp earth wall, watching this scene, the corners of his mouth curving up unconsciously.

Just then, a bit of icy coldness fell on the tip of his nose.

Followed by a second point, a third point.

He looked up, only to see fine white crystals spinning and falling down from the pitch-black night sky.

At first, it was only scattered points, but it soon became dense.

Sprinkling profusely on the black trenches, the crater-pitted no-man’s land, and those corpses that hadn’t been collected in time.

It was snowing.

Morin reached out to catch a snowflake, watching it quickly melt into a drop of water in his palm.

“Speaking of which…” He sighed softly, his voice seeming somewhat ethereal in the wind and snow, “Christmas is coming in a few days.”

When the war just broke out, whether it was the Saxon Empire, the Gallic Republic, or the Holy Britannia Empire…

From the generals of the General Staff down to the newly enlisted recruits, everyone optimistically believed this was just an armed parade at the end of summer and the beginning of autumn.

“Go home before the leaves fall,” “End the war before Christmas”…

Such slogans were once shouted loudly.

But this damn war was like a greedy behemoth, devouring not only countless lives but also everyone’s patience and hope.

Now, looking at the snowflakes flying all over the sky, even the dullest private understood—they couldn’t go back.

This Christmas, they were destined to spend it in these dirt pits emitting musty and foul smells.

As the holiday approached, an indescribable emotion began to spread in the trenches.

It was a complex emotion mixing homesickness, fatigue, weariness of war, yet having to fight.

Morin had been running to the front line frequently these days, and he felt this emotion most truly.

The soldiers who usually liked to gather together to brag and chat became much more silent.

More often, they sat in the corners of the foxholes, using the dim kerosene lamps to wipe the few somewhat wrinkled letters from home or photos in their hands over and over again.

And this emotion was contagious…

Although Morin was a transmigrator, having stayed in this world for so long and seeing these faces he spent day and night with, his heart inevitably felt a bit heavy.

For these Saxon soldiers, Christmas was the most important day of the year, a time for family reunion.

This reminded Morin of the Spring Festival in the world before his transmigration.

That feeling of loneliness of being alone in a foreign land while thousands of homes were lit up was carved into the bones, no matter which world.

Interestingly, this emotion didn’t seem to differentiate by national borders.

Perhaps because they failed to achieve independence, the “North American youths” opposite the no-man’s land were highly assimilated culturally by the Britannians, and the importance they attached to Christmas was no less than that of the Saxons.

Starting from December 20th, the gunfire on the front line visibly thinned out.

It was as if both sides had reached some tacit understanding. Those probing attacks that originally occurred without fail every day stopped, and even sniping and harassing artillery fire became much less.

By the day of December 23rd, the entire defense zone was surprisingly quiet.

For a whole day, not a single gunshot rang out in the trenches of both sides.

Only the biting cold wind wrapped with snowflakes whistled through the empty no-man’s land, making whining sounds.

This tranquility seemed both luxurious and strange on the battlefield.

The Saxon logistics department did something human for once.

When the first truck fully loaded with green fir trees stopped at the rear supply point, the entire Buchy frontline troops boiled over.

Although these so-called “Christmas trees” were mostly only half a person high, and some were even just thick pine branches.

But this splash of vibrant green appearing in the muddy, gloomy trenches was itself a huge mental comfort.

Soldiers acted as if they had found some treasure, moving those crooked pine trees into the trenches, and then trying their best to decorate them.

At dusk, several field post office trucks that were always half a beat late finally chugged to the safety zone behind the trenches.

Tens of thousands of letters and parcels were distributed.

In the originally dead silent foxholes, the rustling sound of opening envelopes and uncontrollable sobbing or laughter could be heard everywhere.

Morin walked in the wooden-paved communication trench just like the past few days. Watching this scene, a smile unconsciously hung on his face.

In this trench filled with death, he felt the vitality of life for the first time.

“Your Excellency Lieutenant Colonel!”

When passing a section of the trench, Sergeant Fischer excitedly held up a piece of sausage and waved it at Morin.

“My wife sent it! This is the taste of my hometown! Sir, do you want a taste?”

Morin smiled and waved his hand: “Keep it for yourself, Sergeant Fischer… Don’t eat it all before Christmas Eve.”

“Hehe, I won’t. I left some for the other boys.”

Looking at the pure smile on Sergeant Fischer’s face, the string that had been taut in Morin’s heart seemed to loosen a bit.

After returning to the temporary camp of the instruction unit, Morin was staring blankly at the map in the command post when a noisy engine roar suddenly came from behind the communication trench.

“Sir! Sir!”

Morin’s orderly ran in panting, an uncontrollable excitement on his face.

“A convoy came from the rear! Saying it’s for you… uh, a private parcel?”

“Private parcel?” Morin was stunned, “Do I have a parcel so big it needs a convoy to deliver?”

When he walked out of the command post and came to the open space in the rear, he raised his eyebrows at the sight before him.

A convoy composed of more than twenty Radiant Crystal Trucks, guided by the logistics officers of the instruction unit, parked grandly beside the garrison of the instruction unit.

These trucks looked brand-new and shiny, the carriages covered with thick waterproof canvas. A huge logo was spray-painted with conspicuous white paint on the side of the doors—an eagle with spread wings grasping a gear and a hammer.

Below was a line of ornate text: [Falkenstein – Eisenstein United Industries].

“Good heavens…”

Kleist, following behind Morin, almost popped his eyes out watching, “This extravagance… is it Madam Falkenstein?”

Morin raised an eyebrow, having a rough idea in his heart.

Besides that Sister Cecilia, whose wealth rivaled a nation, who else could pull off such a grand private transport convoy at this juncture of tight supplies?