10 June, 1914
Max Müller pulled his boots on quietly in the dim light of his bedroom.
The sun hadn't risen yet, and the faint gray glow outside made the room feel cold.
Across from him, Leo, his little brother, lay sound asleep, curled up under their shared quilt.
Max watched him for a moment, a tightness in his chest that he hadn't expected.
This was it, the last morning at home.
Downstairs, the smell of coffee greeted him, and he found his mother standing by the stove, stirring a pot of porridge.
She looked up as he entered, she was tired her eyes as if could convey the message of unwillingness about her soon choice.
She set a bowl in front of him, her hands lingering on the table for a moment before pulling away.
"Eat, Max," she said, her voice soft.
Max picked up his spoon, but he didn't feel hungry.
Instead, he watched his mother, noting the faint tremble in her hands as she poured herself a cup of coffee.
"I'll write to you, Mother. Every week," he promised, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt.
She nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. "Just… be careful." She hesitated, then reached over, squeezing his hand. "Promise me that, Max."
"I promise." He didn't know if he could keep that promise, but he meant it in that moment.
Footsteps thumped on the stairs, and Leo appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
He looked at Max with a mix of admiration and worry. "Are you really going, Max?"
Max forced a smile, tousling Leo's hair. "Yeah, little man. But I need you to look after Mother, alright?"
Leo nodded solemnly. "Will you be back soon?"
Max glanced at his mother, who was watching him intently. "As soon as I can," he replied, though even he wasn't sure what that meant.
After a quick goodbye, Max stepped outside, slinging his small pack over his shoulder.
The village was quiet, with only a few people about, going about their early morning chores.
As he walked, he noticed neighbors watching from windows or offering faint nods as he passed.
Old Herr Fischer, Karl's father, stood on his porch, waving a slow, dignified salute.
Max nodded back, feeling a strange mixture of pride and dread.
"Bring us back a victory, Max!" Herr Fischer called, his voice thick with a mix of pride and sadness.
Max raised a hand. "I'll do my best!"
---
The draft office was a modest building, plain and utilitarian.
Inside, it was packed with men his age and older, all waiting to sign up, all looking eager or anxious or just uncertain.
The walls were bare, save for a large poster of the Kaiser looking stern and authoritative, as if silently commanding them to do their duty.
Max joined the line, feeling the buzz of excitement around him.
Some men joked with each other, their laughter nervous and high. Others stood quietly, looking straight ahead.
When the officer at the front of the line finally called, "Müller, Max," Max straightened, trying to project confidence.
He approached the desk, where a man in a dark green uniform sat, his mustache stiff and trimmed, eyes sharp and appraising.
The officer looked him over before asking, "Age?"
"Eighteen, sir," Max replied, his voice firm.
"Height?"
"Five foot nine."
The officer made a note on his clipboard, not looking up. "Any experience?"
"No, sir."
The officer raised an eyebrow, giving him a second, more critical look. "So you've come to join the grand adventure, have you, Müller?"
Max held his gaze, determined not to let the man's tone shake him. "I came to do my part, sir."
The officer gave a faint nod, though it was hard to tell if it was approval or just indifference. "Well, Müller, we'll see what you're made of soon enough. Report to Camp Wilhelm tomorrow morning, dawn sharp. 3rd Infantry Regiment."
"Yes, sir."
The officer waved him off, already calling the next name. "Schmidt, Karl."
Max turned, finding himself face-to-face with Karl Fischer, a familiar face from his village.
Karl was a couple of years older and had always been known for his easygoing grin and broad shoulders, the sort of guy everyone liked.
"Didn't expect to see you here," Max said, nodding in acknowledgment.
Karl grinned, giving him a hearty slap on the back. "Couldn't let the young pups have all the glory, could I?"
They shared a quick, understanding smile before Karl moved forward to take his turn at the desk
The following morning, Max arrived at Camp Wilhelm, a sprawling patch of land surrounded by low hills.
The buildings were functional, built of plain wood, with muddy paths winding between them.
There was nothing here that suggested heroics or glory.
Just rows of barracks, a training ground, and men scurrying about, some in crisp uniforms, others, like Max, in simple civilian clothes.
A sharp whistle pierced the morning air, and Max snapped to attention, along with the other recruits who had arrived.
A man in uniform, tall and lean with a face set like stone, marched toward them.
His eyes swept over the group, cold and calculating.
"I am Sergeant Weber," he announced, his voice flat and hard. "For the next few months, I am your god, your father, and your worst nightmare. I don't care who you were before you set foot in this camp. Out here, you're nothing. You have to earn the right to be called a soldier."
Max felt his stomach tighten as Weber's gaze settled on him for a moment before moving on.
There was no warmth in those eyes, no hint of encouragement.
Just a harsh, unyielding presence.
"Some of you are here thinking this is going to be an adventure," Weber continued, his voice dripping with disdain.
"You're here to play hero, to march around in fancy uniforms. Well, let me make one thing clear this isn't a game, and I'm not here to hold your hand. I'm here to turn you into soldiers, whether you like it or not."
The recruits stood in silence, some shifting uncomfortably, others watching Weber with a mixture of fear and awe.
Max stole a glance at Karl, who gave him a quick nod as if to say, We'll get through this.
Weber pointed at a recruit at the end of the line, a young man with a nervous expression and hands that trembled slightly. "You! What's your name?"
"Reinhardt, sir," the man stammered.
Weber's eyes narrowed. "Well, Reinhardt, you don't look like much of a soldier to me. You think the enemy's going to go easy on you because you're nervous? Think they're going to give you a head start?"
Reinhardt swallowed hard. "No, sir."
"That's right. Out there, there's no mercy. And I have none to give you here. Remember that."
Weber moved down the line, pausing in front of each man, throwing out criticisms as he went.
He stopped in front of Karl, giving him a once-over. "You look strong, Fischer. You think you're ready for this?"
Karl met his gaze, his voice steady. "I believe so, sir."
Weber smirked. "Belief's a good start, but belief won't keep you alive. Only discipline will."
Finally, Weber reached Max. He stared him down, and Max resisted the urge to look away.
"You're Müller?" Weber asked, his tone neutral but intense.
"Yes, sir."
Weber looked him over, then shook his head slightly. "Another farm boy, I see. Well, Müller, you better forget those fields. Out here, it's not your back you need to keep straight; it's your mind."
Max nodded, keeping his expression steady.
Weber stepped back, addressing the whole group again. "Tomorrow morning, at dawn, we start training. You think today was tough? You haven't seen anything yet. I don't care if you're tired, I don't care if you're sore. The enemy won't care, and neither will I. I'll push you until you break, and then I'll push you harder. Because that's what it takes."
Max felt a chill run down his spine. He'd known this wouldn't be easy, but hearing Weber speak with such a brutal tone made it harder to digest.
"Dismissed!" Weber barked. The recruits stood still for a moment, as if uncertain they were actually allowed to move.
As they walked away, Max and Karl exchanged a look.
"Well," Karl muttered, "looks like we're in for a long few months."
Max forced a grin, though it felt hollow. "Guess we better get used to it."
They made their way to the barracks.
That night, Max lay on his bunk, staring up at the wooden beams above him.
Thoughts of home drifted through his mind, memories of quiet fields and family dinners.
But those memories felt distant now, almost like they belonged to someone else.
In the morning, he'd wake up in a world ruled by Weber a world that didn't care about comfort