Under the cover of night, in Russian Army trenches stretching for hundreds of miles.
Vasily clasped his nearly frozen hands together, breathed warm air into them, and complained, "Didn't they say the Germans were planning something big? It's been days now—why hasn't there been any movement from the other side?"
It wasn't as though there had been no movement at all.
But aside from the usual exchanges—both sides lobbing tons of shells at each other's positions, or snipers trading shots—it was all routine in Vasily's eyes.
After facing each other for so long, both sides had built countless trenches, bunkers, barbed-wire entanglements, and permanent fortifications. Any attack that hoped to achieve meaningful results would come at a horrific cost.
Over time, the Eastern Front had fallen into the strange state of a "sitting war."
The veteran Igor pulled a rusty Iron Box from his coat and took out a cigarette that was down to half its length, placing it between his lips.
After lighting it, Igor leisurely exhaled a cloud of smoke before saying, "Who knows? Maybe the Germans have made the north their main battlefield. Isn't that close to Saint Petersburg?"
A young recruit nearby wore a dreamy expression. "Saint Petersburg is a big city. Have any of you ever been there?"
"Idiot. If any of us had been to a place like that, would we still be squatting in a trench with you as common grunts? We'd at least have gotten ourselves a Second Lieutenant's commission."
Vasily cursed, then carefully pulled a bottle of vodka from an ammunition crate and took a huge swig. The icy liquor slid down his throat into his stomach, only to become a blazing fire in an instant.
Haa—
He breathed out the scent of alcohol and looked at Igor with satisfaction. "Squad