By the third week, Camp Wilhelm had become a world of its own.
Every day was a test of endurance and grit, and each recruit found himself inching closer to exhaustion.
But today, as they gathered on the training ground for their first session of live firing, there was excitement among the recruits.
The recruits were eager to handle their weapons in a real setting, their minds set on proving themselves.
Sergeant Weber stood before them, holding up a Gewehr 98, the rifle they'd been drilling with for days.
He began with his usual sharp commands, his voice unwavering. "This is your first firing exercise. Today, you'll learn what it means to shoot with focus, to control your breathing, to hit your target. This isn't target practice at a carnival. Miss your shot, and it could mean the difference between life and death for you or the man beside you."
The men lined up, gripping their rifles, adrenaline pulsing through their veins.
Max held his Gewehr firmly, his mind fixed on hitting his target.
Weber watched each man closely, correcting their posture, reminding them to keep calm.
Max took his shot, the recoil jolting through his shoulder, but his aim was solid.
"Good shot, Müller," Weber muttered, almost reluctantly, as he walked past. "But don't get too comfortable. A rifle isn't worth a thing in hands that can't keep steady under pressure."
Beside him, Karl fired his own shot, hitting the target with less precision.
He winced, adjusting his grip. "Guess I'm not quite a sharpshooter yet," he said with a crooked grin.
Max chuckled, nudging him. "You're getting there, Karl. Just don't blow my ear off in the process."
As the men continued to fire, the air filled with the sound of shots echoing across the field.
Otto was next to Max, his hands shaking slightly as he aimed.
His first shot missed the target, and Weber immediately noticed.
"What was that, Otto?" Weber demanded, his tone sharp. "You think the enemy's going to wait for you to settle your nerves?"
Otto swallowed, adjusting his stance. "No, sir. Sorry, sir."
"Then try again. And this time, breathe like your life depends on it, because it does," Weber barked.
Otto took a deep breath, focused, and his second shot hit closer to the mark.
Weber grunted approvingly, moving down the line, leaving Otto looking both relieved and slightly pale.
After an hour, the men took a brief break. They huddled together, sharing water and shaking off the tension.
Karl nudged Max. "Can you believe how tough he is on Otto? Poor guy's hands shake every time Weber walks by."
Max nodded, glancing over at Otto, who was talking quietly with Reinhardt. "He's pushing us hard because he knows what's coming. And honestly, if Otto doesn't get it together, it could cost him his life."
Karl sighed, leaning back. "Yeah, you're probably right. But I can't say I enjoy watching him go pale every time he misses a shot."
The men's chatter was interrupted by an officer rushing toward Weber with a telegram in hand.
Weber's eyes narrowed as he took it, scanning the message quickly.
His expression turned grim, and he motioned for the men to gather.
"Listen up!" he called, his voice sharper than usual. "Something has happened. Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria has been assassinated. Shot in Sarajevo."
A murmur ran through the group, expressions shifting from curiosity to unease.
The name was known to every man there, even if the details of politics weren't their primary concern.
They knew enough to recognize that an event of this scale could change everything.
Karl leaned in toward Max, whispering, "Assassination? That doesn't sound good."
Max nodded, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. "If Austria reacts…well, it could drag everyone into this mess."
Weber continued, his tone serious. "Austria is likely to retaliate, and where Austria goes, we follow. You'd best understand what that means. We've been training, but if this turns into war, everything will intensify. There'll be no half measures. If you're not ready to put everything on the line, now's the time to walk away."
No one moved.
Otto's voice broke the silence. "But… Austria's fight isn't ours. Are we really going to war over this?"
Weber's gaze turned cold. "Austria is our ally, Otto. If Austria goes to war, we're in. And that means we have days maybe weeks to become soldiers, not just recruits."
Reinhardt muttered under his breath, his face pale. "They've been talking about war for years. I thought it was just politics, not…this."
Max swallowed, feeling nervous.
He'd enlisted with a vague sense of duty, a longing for adventure.
But now, for the first time, he understood what that choice might mean.
Weber let the silence settle before snapping back into command mode. "Enough chatter. Back to training. From now on, everything doubles. This isn't boot camp anymore; this is preparation for war."
The next day, true to Weber's word, their training doubled in intensity.
Firing drills were faster, with shorter breaks in between.
Bayonet training became a blur of lunges and twists, each man pairing up, sparring with increased urgency.
Weber added new exercises, emphasizing endurance and teamwork.
One morning, he ordered them to form teams, each group carrying a heavy wooden log through an obstacle course.
Max found himself leading his team, shouting commands, pushing the others to keep moving as they stumbled through mud and climbed over walls, the log pressing down on their shoulders.
"Keep moving!" Max shouted as Reinhardt nearly slipped, gritting his teeth as they pushed forward together.
Otto, on the opposite end of the log, was struggling to keep his grip. "This…this is impossible!"
"Nothing's impossible if you keep pushing!" Max called back, digging in his heels as they heaved the log over the next obstacle.
Weber stood by, watching their progress, his eyes cold but alert. "Müller, you're acting like a leader. Keep it up, and maybe you'll survive what's coming. But don't think for a second that means you're ready. None of you are ready."
During a break, the men gathered around, panting, bruised, but alive with a strange energy.
The possibility of war had shocked them, but it also focused them, sharpening their resolve.
Karl leaned back, rubbing his sore shoulders. "Can you believe this? Austria, Germany, Serbia, all over an assassination. One man's death, and the whole world's about to go mad."
Max nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "It feels unreal. We're here, training like animals, and out there, they're drawing up plans to send us to the front."
Otto, looking tense, muttered, "I didn't sign up for this. I thought it'd be marching around, maybe a few skirmishes. But a war? A real war?"
Reinhardt gave a hollow laugh. "Didn't we all? But there's no backing out now. We're in this, like it or not."
Max glanced around at the men's faces, seeing a mixture of fear and determination.
Whatever dreams or illusions they'd carried with them into boot camp had been shattered.
They were no longer boys on an adventure.
They were soldiers, or at least they were becoming them, bit by bit, under Weber's relentless gaze.
One evening, as the men stumbled back to the barracks after another grueling day, Karl dared to ask Weber a question. "Sir, were you ever scared? Your first time out there?"
Weber paused, his face as hard as ever, but there was a flicker in his eyes. "Fear isn't something you get rid of, Fischer. You learn to carry it, to make it work for you. If you don't, it'll eat you alive."
Karl nodded, looking both disappointed and a bit wiser.
Max thought he saw the faintest hint of a smile on Weber's face, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
"Enough questions," Weber snapped, his tone gruff. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we start again, and it won't be any easier."
But as they walked away, Max felt that Weber's response had given them all a glimpse into the man beneath the uniform, a man who had faced the same fears they were only beginning to understand.
That night, lying in their bunks, the men couldn't stop talking.
The assassination and the possibility of war hung over them, impossible to ignore.
Karl turned to Max, his voice low. "So, what do you think? Are we really going to war?"
Max hesitated. "I don't know. But I know Weber believes it, and he's acting like it's only a matter of time. So maybe… maybe we should start acting like it too."
Otto lay back on his bunk, his face shadowed with worry. "Acting like it means what, though? We're just learning how to shoot, how to march. How does any of this prepare us for… for what's really out there?"
Max paused, "I don't know if it does. But maybe Weber's just trying to make us tougher. He can't teach us everything, we're going to have to figure a lot of it out ourselves."
Reinhardt turned over, his voice soft. "It's funny, you know? All those speeches, all those stories about glory. They don't feel like they mean much right now."
Karl chuckled darkly, staring up at the ceiling. "Glory doesn't do you much good if you're lying in the mud with bullets flying over your head."