The bus jolted to a sudden halt, throwing Reinhard forward in his seat. "Seems like we're here," he muttered, gripping the edge of his seat for balance.
"Indeed," Ernst exclaimed with a grin. "You missed all of the wonderful views!"
"Like...?" Reinhard asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ernst laughed, shaking his head. "Such as you snoring so loud I couldn't even hear the bus engines!" The sound of his laughter was infectious, and a few others chuckled behind them. Reinhard's cheeks flushed, and he let out a small sigh. It was embarrassing, but in the face of what awaited outside, trivial.
Through the dusty bus window, Reinhard glimpsed the sprawling training camp. Soldiers in crisp uniforms ran across the grounds, shouting orders and gesturing, their voices cutting through the air. Near the front entrance, three men barked commands at the new recruits.
"Move it! This ain't a playground!" one yelled, his voice harsh and sharp.
"You there! Drop all your stuff and run to the field. I said, RUN!" another shouted. Recruits scrambled in every direction, and Reinhard leapt from the bus, heart hammering, following the chaotic flow of men.
The camp was massive, far larger than he had imagined. Two buildings formed an L-shape near the front entrance, and Reinhard guessed this was only the beginning of the grounds. Ernst tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to a small wooden podium where recruits were forming rows. They ran to join the line, side by side, feeling dwarfed by the sheer number of men around them. More buses rolled down the streets, spilling even more recruits into the chaotic scene. Reinhard counted silently in his head, realizing that this division might be ten thousand strong—far more than he had expected.
"I heard someone say we have over ten thousand men in this division!" Ernst said, his voice trembling slightly with excitement. "We sure are going to win this war!"
Ten thousand. The number made Reinhard's stomach tighten. He had imagined only a few thousand at most, yet here they were, thousands of new faces merging into a living, breathing army.
Suddenly, a commanding voice cut through the noise. A tall man in uniform stepped onto the podium, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd.
"Soldiers! Recruits! Today, you have volunteered to give up your lives and fight for those you love," he began, his voice echoing across the square. "This will be no easy task. It will require blood, sweat, and tears. If you cannot bear these sacrifices, speak now and leave. This is no place for the weak!"
No one moved. No one spoke. The silence hung heavy over the recruits.
"Very well," he continued, his gaze sweeping the crowd. "I am your commanding officer, Oberstleutnant Arnold. You will obey and listen to my every command. Any who refuse shall be dismissed. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" The crowd roared back in unison, a wave of sound that made Reinhard's chest tighten.
Satisfied, the officer moved on. "Each of you is assigned a barrack, shared with three others. Continue to the main hall in the right-wing building to receive your assignments. Since it is your first day, you have three hours to familiarize yourselves with the camp. Maps are posted at various locations. Move!"
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The moment the orders were given, chaos erupted. Men shouted and jostled each other, the noise deafening. Reinhard had to yell to be heard over the crowd as he and Ernst navigated toward the right-wing building. He could barely take in the scale of the camp: streets lined with barracks, drill fields, and training grounds, all swarming with recruits and officers.
After hours of running between barracks, inspecting maps, and finding their assigned spaces, Reinhard found himself in the mess hall. At noon, all recruits were to eat. The hall was striking—its walls painted in the tricolors of black, white, and red, and a massive iron cross loomed at the far end.
Reinhard collected his meal: sausage with rice, a pair of biscuits, and a cup of tea. Carrying the tray, he made his way through the bustling hall to find Ernst. The din was so great it was nearly impossible to hear each other. Finally, a loud officer's shout signaled the end of the break.
"Lunchtime is over! Report to your regular schedules! Move it!"
Reinhard took a last bite of rice and sausage, then disposed of his tray. Glancing at their schedules, he realized he and Ernst had been assigned different groups. Their only chance to speak would be during breaks or at the end of the day. Ernst patted him on the back as he and his group walked deeper into the building. Reinhard, part of Group B, was headed for the field drills.
The obstacle course lay ahead, with a drill sergeant waiting. Pickelhaube helmets glinted on a wooden table nearby. Reinhard and his group stood at attention as the sergeant paced in front of them, scrutinizing each recruit.
"You have five minutes to complete this course," he barked, his voice slicing through the morning air. "Any failure, and you will be discharged. Start now!"
Reinhard sprinted, leapt, and crawled across the grueling course. The whistle of the sergeant followed him relentlessly, leaving no room for error. Over the following months, the routine repeated daily: drills, obstacle courses, marksmanship, and rigorous discipline, each day pushing the men to their limits.
Six months passed quickly. By August sixteenth, the time had come. The 19th Division was to be sent to the frontlines. Buses would take them to a station outside Metz, and from there, a forty-mile march awaited them, each man carrying a sixty-pound tornister. The march was brutal; many recruits fainted and had to be carried by comrades.
Reinhard's equipment included a Gewehr 98 rifle, a tornister, three Stielhandgranate, a standard bayonet, a canteen, and canned rations. As they neared the city, distant explosions and gunfire signaled the battlefield ahead. The scale of the approaching conflict hit Reinhard like a physical blow. Smoke and fire marked the horizon, and far-off buildings were already in ruins. Ernst marched beside him, seemingly untouched by fatigue or fear, fascinated by the chaos.
Dusk fell by the time they reached the trenches. Reinhard's stomach twisted at the sight: men staggered through the mud, some dead, some too wounded to move. Barbed wire and machine guns lined the firing line. Medics darted through the carnage, carrying the injured and shoving aside the fallen.
"Spread out! Find empty trenches! Move it!" officers shouted, forcing the new arrivals to scramble for positions.
Ernst and Reinhard found a mostly vacant section along the right flank. Few machine gunners and riflemen occupied the area. They settled among the veterans, attempting to familiarize themselves with the chaos.
Suddenly, shrill screeches pierced the air, followed by the deafening roar of an explosion nearby. Reinhard stumbled, instinctively ducking. Ernst gripped his shoulder, steadying him. Bodies and debris littered the mud around them. Reinhard's mind struggled to process the horror, the detached limbs, the bloodied uniforms, the cries of men in pain.
He climbed onto the fire step, rifle in hand, and looked across the field. Colors waved across the land—red, blue, and brown. The sound of gunfire was endless, the groans and screams of injured men forming a grim symphony. Reinhard fired at anything that moved, each shot a mix of fear, adrenaline, and grim resolve. Slowly, the German counterattack seemed to gain ground.
Then, without warning, a single shot struck near Reinhard, and everything went black.