On my fifth regression, I became Corporal Hitler, slogging it out as a runner on the Western Front in 1918.
The first time I regressed, I’d opened my eyes an hour before possession.
The second time, a day before. The third, a week. The fourth, a month.
And now, this time—I woke up a whole year earlier, on the Western Front in 1918.
I don’t know the exact reason.
But judging from my experience so far, I suspected that the farther back I regressed each time was some kind of penalty.
Like League’s demotion system, maybe. Lose a match, your rank drops.
After all my countless failures, ending up as Hitler in his corporal days on the Western Front fit that logic.
Fuck, the more I think about it, the more pissed I get.
Who the hell could’ve predicted that those Junker bastards, the ones who whined to Hitler not to start a war, would stage a coup the moment he didn’t?
But I had no one to vent to. No friends to hear me out, no mentor to advise me on what to do next.
Only me.
I couldn’t despair here. I had to survive to the end and put a lead slug through the skulls of the assholes who’d backstabbed me and ruined everything.
And then complete the mission and return home.
To the world with computers and smartphones, where I could buy any food I wanted if I had the cash, and sleep peacefully without worrying about war breaking out tomorrow.
Like hell I’m giving up. I’ll see this through to the end—
“Hey, Hitler.”
“Corporal Hitler.”
“Haul this to the warehouse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hitler, gather the guys and patch up Position 2. The regimental commander’s coming by this afternoon, so do it thoroughly, got it?”
“Corporal Hitler, understood!”
Right now I was in the army, plain and simple.
Buried in the nonstop, suffocating routine, I was completely absorbed into the grind.
About a week after I’d possessed Hitler—
That’s when the “incident” happened.
“Corporal Hitler?”
“What?”
“The company commander wants you.”
“On my way.”
Those who know their history will know that Hitler’s role in WWI was that of a runner.
Back then, with communications equipment still underdeveloped, information had to be carried back and forth between the front and the rear by people on foot.
“Corporal Hitler, reporting.”
“You’re here. This is a regimental order. Deliver it to the 2nd Battalion at the front.”
“Right now, sir?”
For reference, the sun was just starting to set.
“Yes. Right now.”
Suppressing a sigh, I took the regimental order the company commander handed me.
Of course, the only bicycle in the company happened to be under repair, so I had no choice but to run all the way to the front on my own two feet.
Goddamn it, Hitler.
Why’d you have to volunteer for such a shitty, dangerous assignment and screw me over like this?
But what else could I do? I was just a lowly corporal—when the higher-ups give an order, you follow.
At least I had a body that could handle it. Running wasn’t the hard part.
It was just the irritation of sweating it out while everyone else got to rest.
Recalling my old days of physical training in the army, I jogged toward the front line for about an hour.
By the time I finally reached the 2nd Battalion, the sun had completely set.
“Halt! Halt! Move and you’re dead!”
“Owl!”
“Kangaroo!”
I shouted the countersign, and the sentry lowered his rifle.
“What unit are you from?”
“1st Battalion. This is the 2nd, right? I’ve got an order here, so point me to the battalion commander’s office.”
I was shown to the 2nd Battalion commander, saluted, and pulled the order from my tunic.
Aside from the envelope edges being a bit grimy, the condition was decent.
“Regimental order, sir. Please confirm.”
“Mm. Yes, an official order. Wait outside.”
The battalion commander took the envelope and immediately launched into a heated discussion with his staff.
I caught words like British, supplies, troop numbers—then a young major came out.
“Good work getting here.”
“Thank you, sir. If there’s nothing else, may I take my leave?”
“You may, but dinner’s being served soon. Care to join us? We’re having chicken stew tonight, a special treat.”
“…I’ll stay.”
Damn right I would.
Since falling into this world, I hadn’t even seen meat. And now, chicken?
After nothing but endless boiled turnips, my long-dead appetite roared back to life.
Thanks to the major’s generosity, I stood in line with the soldiers, waiting for the meal to be served.
An eternity seemed to pass before four cooks finally appeared, carrying two massive pots.
“God, that smell.”
“How many months has it been since we had real meat?”
Exhausted, starving soldiers drooled as the aroma of chicken stew wafted over them.
Me too, of course.
When the lid came off, the smell doubled in strength.
Cheers began to rise from the ranks—only for the ground to shake and an explosion to thunder.
“Artillery strike!”
“Take cover!”
The enemy bombardment had begun. Damn it. Why the fuck right now, of all times?!
As shells fell, the soldiers didn’t hesitate—they sprinted for the dugouts.
Hunger could wait. First came survival.
With deep regret, I bolted with unfamiliar comrades into the nearest dugout.
The last man in was a gaunt-faced sergeant with hollow cheeks.
A heavy tremor followed him in.
“Fucking bastards, won’t even let us eat.”
“This is why I hate the Tommies.”
“When the fuck is this shitty barrage going to end?”
Packed into the cramped dugout with no food in our bellies, everyone’s nerves were on edge.
The chicken stew we’d been longing for slipped out of reach, leaving us to wait helplessly for the shelling to stop. Could anything be more pathetic?
Damn my luck.
“By the way, haven’t seen you before. What unit you from?”
Thirty minutes into the barrage, even I, sitting quietly in the corner, got called out.
“1st Battalion.”
“1st? But they’re in the rear.”
“I was sent as a runner and got stuck here. Goddamn it.”
When I explained I’d only wanted some chicken stew and ended up trapped in a dugout, the 2nd Battalion men burst out laughing.
“This guy’s cursed, huh.”
“After sucking honey in the rear, this is nothing, isn’t it?”
“Honey? You think runners have it easy?!”
“Rear’s the rear. Doesn’t matter if you’re a runner or whatever, it’s still sweet.”
“Exactly.”
Sure, being a runner was hell in its own way, but to these guys I was just another rear-line leech.
As if they’d been at the front all that much longer.
Annoyed, I opened my mouth to set them straight—when the dugout was suddenly rocked by a tremor far stronger than before.
“Sounded close.”
“Yeah, but—huh!?”
Dirt sifted down from the ceiling, then the timbers split apart and the earth above collapsed in on us.