On the wasteland shrouded by Eternal Night, there were no stars, no moon, not even a trace of dim light—only the vague outline at the edge where sky met earth, stained a dark red by artillery fire. The flashes came and went in an instant, hundreds and thousands of self-propelled howitzers squatting in the night, barrels rearing like a forest, their matte tactical paint not reflecting the slightest gleam.
Qin Mian leaned back in the concrete-assembled trench, head tilted up, clutching his rifle. His cheeks worked hard as he chewed; although the gum in his mouth had long since lost its flavor, he still couldn't bear to spit it out. Here they had more than enough to eat and drink, but things like gum were luxuries—there wasn't much in the entire camp.
This one stick had been forcibly wrung out of the battalion commander's hand by the company commander, who was afraid he'd get nervous his first time on the battlefield, so he gave it all to him.
