cuphead pointing down

Nice story man

LAMFOJAIOFNOIJPOJ

There are booming sounds in the distance. Artillery, or thunder? It can be hard to tell sometimes. Just enough rain falls from the steel-grey sky to turn the equally grey landscape into a miserable field of mud. The trench is even worse. Rows of men stand at parade rest in murky grey water that covers their ankles. Wet, grey uniforms cling to them. Despite this, the uniforms are otherwise immaculate. They had better be, at least. I check mine. My boots are muddy, but that is unavoidable. Otherwise, not a spot of grease or mud mars the sodden grey wool. I breathe a sigh of relief. Everything is grey, as it should be.
That is, everything except the Inquisitor. He stands on a crude wooden podium, with robed (grey, of course, though with some scarlet trim) acolytes holding a large umbrella over his scarlet-clad frame. His boots are perfectly polished and shined, without a speck of mud, and made of red leather. His greaves and cuirass are dyed red. Over his shoulders is thrown a red cape bearing a white cross and gold trim. A red gas mask conceals his face, covering his eyes with red-tinted lenses, which makes him look like a large insect or some sort of automaton. I push the thought out of my mind, but cannot avoid the truth that not a single square inch of flesh is visible; there is nothing to indicate that anything human is beneath that silk and steel.

That happens to be why we are standing in formation in the rain today. Behind the Inquisitor, on large wooden crosses that poke out over the lip of trench, are three men stripped of their uniforms and weapons, with large nails driven through their hands and feet. Their blood drips from their still-fresh wounds and mingles with the grey mud. We don’t worry about what the enemy would think about us killing our own. There’s nothing human out there in No Man’s Land. Nailed to the heads of the crosses are signs with their units. All from Third Regiment. Our Regiment. They have no names, not anymore, but their crime is apparent to all. Heresy, saying that even the urine of an Inquisitor was red. Now the entire Regiment is under suspicion of heresy. I try to think of anything that would condemn me… my letters to home? A mutter in my sleep? That one day when I skipped church because I had dysentery?
While I run through the list in my head and my anxiety mounts, men are called up to the Inquisitor, one by one. Some hesitate; like me, they try to recall anything they might have done that would doom them to join the half-dozen men already being measured for crucifixes – as I have done. Others go instantly, confident that their faith is obvious. Such is Aaron Erchart. He practically bounds up to the podium and kneels before the Inquisitor. The red-cloaked figure bends down to meet him at eye level. Neither of them moves for a solid 15 seconds. The Inquisitor’s blank red lenses burn into Erchart’s eyes, into his mind, into his soul. Searching, knowing, judging. Erchart trembles and collapses to the ground, sobbing. “Forgive me, forgive me”, he chokes out between sobs. The Inquisitor stands and gestures to one of the acolytes. Erchart is led away from the podium to join the others in line for a crucifix. The Inquisitor folds his hands as if in prayer and remains motionless as the rain intensifies. It washes the red into the grey, washes away our sins.

I'm not reading that.

It's a story brobro siwa what'd you expect

Cult Story?

Alt history partially inspired by Trench Crusade (though I've never read it)

Oh! Thought it was a War Story at first.

it is

Oh. It just took an unexpected turn.

Yeh
The entire thing will be a war story told through the perspectives of ordinary people.

Oh, nice.