The fourth week of boot camp marked a turning point for Max and the other recruits.
The routines they had grown accustomed to took on a new intensity.
Every day was an exercise in survival, designed to teach them the tactics and instincts they'd need in real combat.
For the first time, they were beginning to see each drill, each formation, each exercise as more than just training, it was preparation for the harsh reality of war.
As they drilled in formations, Weber explained the importance of staying unified in battle. "You stay tight, you stay alive," he barked, pacing through their ranks.
"One man runs off, one man breaks formation, and you're not just putting yourself in danger; you're risking every man beside you."
Max found himself positioned at the head of his squad, taking Weber's instructions to heart.
The men were expected to move as one, to trust the man in front of them and cover the man behind them.
They practiced quick maneuvers, changing directions on Weber's orders, ducking low, moving in unison.
There was no room for hesitation.
Weber had them practice formations over and over until the commands became second nature.
"In battle, there's no time to think," Weber would say. "Your body has to know what to do before your brain catches up. Only way you survive."
Max saw how essential these exercises were, especially for the men who still struggled with nerves or hesitation.
He moved among them, encouraging them, shouting reminders, reminding them to keep their heads down, to hold their ground.
Each day felt like a step closer to becoming the soldiers they were being shaped to be.
Live firing drills also intensified.
They'd spent the first weeks learning the basics of handling their rifles, but now they were training to fire under pressure, with explosions echoing in the distance and Weber's commands ringing out around them.
They practiced taking cover, moving swiftly between points of shelter, learning to shoot and then fall back in a rhythm designed to maximize their chances of survival.
Weber drilled them on the importance of keeping their heads down, of never exposing themselves unnecessarily.
"Remember, you're not heroes out there. Heroes get killed. You're soldiers, and your job is to stay alive," he reminded them, his voice steady, almost cold.
One afternoon, as the men rested between drills, they gathered in small groups, sharing whatever scraps of news had trickled down to the camp.
Every few days, they'd catch snippets of updates about the world outside, the tense standoff between Austria and Serbia, the alliances shifting across Europe.
It seemed like the world was on the edge of something they could all feel but not yet fully understand.
Karl sat down beside Max, shaking his head. "You hear what Otto said? They're saying Austria's ready to march on Serbia. And if that happens…"
Max nodded, his expression grim. "If that happens, we're in. Germany won't just stand by."
Reinhardt joined them, his face pale. "It's happening, isn't it? We're going to war."
After four weeks of relentless training, the recruits expected the same grueling routine to continue.
But one evening, as they stumbled back from the training grounds,
Weber called them all to gather in an open area near the edge of camp.
A large fire crackled in the center, casting flickering shadows across the ground.
The recruits exchanged puzzled glances, unsure of what was going on.
As they gathered around the fire, they noticed an unusual sight, crates of beer, bread, and even roasted chicken, their skin golden and crisp.
The smell alone was enough to make Max's stomach rumble, and he wasn't alone.
The men whispered in amazement, some laughing softly, others just staring, not quite believing their eyes.
Weber stepped forward, his face lit by the firelight, a rare hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Tonight," he said, "you get a break. Drink, eat, and remember that even soldiers deserve a night to enjoy life."
The men let out a cheer, breaking into applause and laughter.
For the first time, Weber looked almost human, like the hard-edged sergeant had loosened, if only slightly, under the fire's glow.
Karl nudged Max, grinning. "Weber giving us a party? This has to be a trap."
Max laughed, shaking his head. "Don't question it, just eat."
They dug in, tearing into the chicken, washing it down with cold beer, and for a while, they could almost forget the reality of their training.
They laughed, swapping stories about home, sharing jokes that brought a welcome lightness to the night.
After a while, Weber joined them around the fire, his posture less rigid, his eyes softened by a hint of nostalgia.
The men fell silent, waiting, sensing he had something to share.
"I was where you are once," Weber began, his voice quieter than usual. "Young, full of fire, thinking I was invincible. My first tour… I went in like you, green and hungry for glory. Came out lucky to be alive."
He paused, the fire reflecting in his eyes. "War strips you down. Takes you to places you can't imagine. It's not just about surviving it's about learning to keep going, even when everything in you wants to quit."
The men listened, rapt, as Weber told them stories of his own experiences.
He spoke of battles he'd fought, men he'd lost, and the quiet moments of terror that even a seasoned soldier couldn't shake.
Max watched him closely, seeing the man behind the uniform for the first time, understanding, perhaps, why Weber was so hard on them.
"People talk about bravery like it's something you put on in the morning, like a uniform," Weber continued, his tone turning sharper. "But real bravery is about standing up when every bone in your body tells you to lie down. It's about staying alive so you can come back and tell the story yourself, instead of someone else reading it in a newspaper after you're gone."
After a moment, Otto raised his mug, his voice loud and a little unsteady from the beer. "To survival, then! To making it back alive!"
The men cheered, lifting their mugs, and for a brief moment, they felt invincible.
They laughed, clapping each other on the back, sharing jokes and stories under the starlit sky, bound together by a camaraderie that only came from facing hardship side by side.
Weber let them enjoy the moment, even joining in a song or two, his gruff voice blending with theirs in a way that felt almost surreal.
But as the night became more dark, he stood, his face serious once more.
"Enjoy this night, men," he said, his tone quiet but firm. "Tomorrow, the training continues, and it'll be harder than anything you've faced so far. I'm going to push you, more than you think you can handle. And you're going to hate me for it."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over them. "But understand this: I do it because I want you to survive. I want each of you to live through what's coming, to come back and tell your own stories. I don't want to see your names in a report or a headline. I want you to stand here, like I am, telling the next group of fools that they can make it too."
The men fell silent.
They knew now, beyond a doubt, that Weber wasn't just preparing them to follow orders.
He was teaching them to survive, to come back whole, or as whole as any man could be after seeing the horrors of war.
As Weber dismissed them, Max felt a strange mixture of fear and determination.
He understood now, perhaps more than ever, that what lay ahead was far beyond anything they could prepare for.
But he also knew that, with Weber's guidance and the strength of the men around him, he might just have a chance.
As he drifted to sleep, he felt a quiet resolve settle in his heart: no matter what happened, he would do everything he could to come back and tell his own story.