They called that stronghold impenetrable. A fortress of steel and men. The pride of Baronia.
Yet here we are, running like dogs to patch holes in the front.
"What the hell happened?" I shouted, struggling to keep up with Peter as we sprinted through the cobblestone streets.
"No idea," Peter gasped, glancing over his shoulder. "The Wilmenians must've thrown everything they had at it."
Ahead of us, Jungenführer von Hilten barked orders, his usually smug face now pale with worry. "Get to the garrison, fast! We need to gear up to support the front!"
Peter smirked, despite the chaos. "Even the mighty Manfred is worried. Oh well, we'd better hurry."
The threat of war was no longer something distant, whispered about in the barracks or announced over crackling loudspeakers. It was here, bearing down on us with the weight of inevitability. Every man, woman, and child—young or old—was being called upon to defend the Reich. No one was spared. Not even boys like us.
God help us all.
We reached the garrison, a cramped, gray building that smelled of sweat and desperation. The sound of boots echoed off the walls as dozens of others crammed inside, all vying for equipment. Chaos reigned as quartermasters yelled out orders and tried to manage the flood of bodies.
"Hans! Over here!" Peter waved me toward a corner where he had managed to grab a rifle for himself.
The quartermaster shoved a bundle into my arms. My "equipment" consisted of a worn uniform, an MP40 submachine gun, and two spare magazines. Not nearly enough ammunition to last the day. I looked around at the others—most of them were outfitted the same, some even worse off with only a rifle and a handful of rounds. The factories that had once churned out weapons and supplies were running dry.
"This is it?" I muttered, staring at the weapon in disbelief.
"Better than nothing," Peter said, though his tone betrayed little confidence.
Von Hilten stormed into the room, his voice cutting through the din. "Move out! Now! The line is faltering, and you're all that stands between the Wilmenians and the heart of Baronia!"
We filed out, our boots crunching against the gravel road as we marched toward the front. The closer we got, the louder the sounds of war grew. The distant rumble of artillery became deafening, punctuated by the sharp cracks of gunfire. The air smelled of gunpowder and death.
As we approached, the scene before us was chaos incarnate. Artillery shells whistled through the air, exploding in bursts of fire and shrapnel. Smoke billowed across the battlefield, obscuring the horizon. Soldiers scrambled to hold their positions, many falling under the relentless onslaught of the Wilmenian forces.
It was a sight I would never forget.
Bodies littered the ground, some twisted in unnatural positions, others half-buried in the mud. Blood mixed with the dirt, forming dark pools that reflected the gray sky above. The screams of the wounded cut through the cacophony, a haunting chorus of agony.
My grip tightened on the MP40 as we were herded into position. A young officer, barely older than us, shouted orders to dig in and prepare to fire. My hands trembled as I fumbled to load the first magazine.
"Hans," Peter whispered, his voice barely audible over the noise. "Do you think we'll make it?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
The first wave came quickly. Shadows emerged from the smoke, moving with terrifying precision. They weren't boys like us. These were hardened soldiers, their faces set with grim determination.
"Open fire!" someone yelled, and the world erupted into chaos.
I squeezed the trigger, the MP40 kicking against my shoulder as I sprayed bullets into the advancing figures. It was nothing like the drills we had been forced to endure. This was raw, messy, and horrifying.
Somewhere to my left, a mortar shell hit its mark, throwing dirt and bodies into the air. The force of the blast knocked me off my feet, and I hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of me.
"Hans!" Peter's voice was distant, almost drowned out by the ringing in my ears.
I forced myself to my feet, my hands coated in mud and blood—though I didn't know whose. Peter was crouched behind a makeshift barricade, frantically reloading his rifle.
"Stay down!" he shouted, motioning for me to take cover.
I dove beside him, my heart pounding in my chest. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to get as far away from this nightmare as possible. But there was nowhere to go.
"We're not going to last," Peter muttered, his voice shaking. "They're pushing through too fast."
I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that reinforcements were on the way, but I couldn't lie to him. Not now.
Another wave came, this one even more relentless than the last. My MP40 clicked empty, and I fumbled to reload. The magazine slipped from my fingers and fell into the mud.
"Damn it!" I cursed, scrambling to retrieve it.
A shadow loomed over me, and I looked up to see an Wilmenian soldier, his rifle raised. Time seemed to slow as he aimed directly at me.
"Hans, move!" Peter tackled me, the force of his body sending us both sprawling. The shot missed, and Peter fired back, his bullet finding its mark. The soldier fell, his weapon clattering to the ground.
I stared at Peter, my chest heaving. He looked back at me, his face pale but determined.
"Don't freeze up," he said, pulling me to my feet. "We need to keep fighting."
The battle raged on around us, a maelstrom of smoke, fire, and death. But something inside me had shifted. The fear was still there, but now it burned alongside something else—a desperate need to survive.
For Peter. For myself. For the faint hope that we might see another day.