Capítulo 2: First Day at Camp
The first day of training at Camp Wilhelm started before dawn, with the sound of a bugle tearing through the stillness of the barracks.
Max jolted awake, his heart racing, his body already sore from the uncomfortable bunk.
Around him, other men groaned and cursed under their breath, fumbling to pull on their boots and jackets in the dark.
"Up and out! You've got sixty seconds!" Sergeant Weber's voice echoed through the barracks, sharp and unforgiving. "If you're not outside by then, you'll regret it."
Max scrambled to his feet, tugging his laces tight, his fingers clumsy with the cold.
He nearly tripped over Karl as they both bolted for the door, the sound of footsteps and hurried whispers filling the air.
Outside, the morning was dark and bitterly cold, a faint fog hanging over the camp.
Max's breath came out in visible puffs as he lined up with the others, his heart pounding in his chest.
Weber was already waiting for them, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes sweeping over the men with a look of practiced disdain.
"You think you're soldiers?" he barked, his tone scornful. "I've seen scarecrows with more spine than this lot."
He paced along the line, stopping now and then to glare at a man who was slouching or still struggling to button his jacket. "Today, we begin your real training. Some of you will break. Some of you will wish you'd never signed up. But by the end of it, those of you who are left will be stronger, faster, and maybe if you're lucky smart enough to stay alive."
The way Weber spoke, it was as if he was daring them to prove him wrong.
Beside him, Karl muttered under his breath, "He's not wasting any time, is he?"
Weber's sharp gaze landed on Karl. "Something to share with the group, Fischer?"
Karl straightened instantly. "No, sir."
"Then save your breath. You'll need it." Weber's eyes moved back to the entire group, and he pointed to a stretch of uneven ground beyond the barracks. "Two miles. Full packs. Move!"
Max barely had time to adjust the weight of his pack before he was jogging alongside the others, his boots pounding against the cold, hard ground.
The pack weighed heavily on his shoulders, and every step sent a jolt through his legs, but he pushed forward, gritting his teeth.
The men settled into a rough line, the stronger ones setting the pace, the others falling behind.
Max focused on his breathing, his eyes fixed ahead, determined to keep up.
But as he continued, he felt his energy draining, the weight of the pack dragging him down.
"Keep moving!" Weber's voice cut through the early morning fog.
He seemed to be everywhere at once, shouting at anyone who slowed down, his words like a whip cracking through the air. "What's wrong, Müller? Getting tired already?"
Max clenched his jaw, refusing to answer. He pushed himself harder, ignoring the burning in his legs, the ache in his shoulders.
Around him, some of the men were starting to stumble, their steps faltering.
One recruit, a wiry young man named Otto, tripped and fell, hitting the ground with a thud.
He groaned, clutching his knee, his face twisted in pain. Weber was on him in an instant.
"You think the enemy's going to wait for you to catch your breath, Otto?" Weber snapped, hauling him to his feet. "Get up and keep moving!"
"But, sir, I—"
"No excuses!" Weber's voice was fierce.
He gave Otto a rough push, sending him back into the line. "You keep moving, or you're done. Understand?"
Otto nodded, swallowing hard, and stumbled back into pace, his face pale but determined.
After what felt like an eternity, they finished the run, collapsing onto the ground in a mess of gasps and groans.
Max's lungs burned, and his legs felt like they'd turned to lead.
But the brief moment of rest was short-lived.
"On your feet!" Weber shouted, his voice cutting through their exhaustion like a knife. "You think the enemy's going to let you lie around when you're tired? Up! Now!"
Max struggled to his feet, his muscles protesting.
Around him, the other recruits staggered upright, their faces set in grim determination.
Weber's gaze swept over them, his expression hard but watchful.
"Next drill: push-ups. I want fifty. And don't even think about stopping." He crossed his arms, watching them closely as they dropped to the ground and began pushing themselves up and down, their arms straining under the effort.
Max's arms burned with each push-up, his muscles trembling as he struggled to keep his form.
Beside him, Karl grunted, his face flushed with exertion.
Weber walked among them, his voice harsh and unyielding. "You think this is hard? You think this is tough? This is nothing. Out there, you'll be pushing yourself far beyond this, and no one's going to be there to shout you forward. You do it, or you die."
One of the recruits, a lanky boy named Reinhardt, gave a small cry and collapsed onto the ground, his arms giving out beneath him.
Weber knelt beside him, his face inches from Reinhardt's.
"What's wrong, Reinhardt? Can't handle a few push-ups?"
Reinhardt looked up at him, his face flushed with embarrassment. "I…I'm trying, sir."
"Trying?" Weber sneered. "You think trying is enough? Trying doesn't keep you alive. Trying doesn't win battles."
He grabbed Reinhardt's arm, pulling him back up. "Now, get back down there and keep going. I don't care if you have to crawl. You finish this, or you leave this camp a failure."
Reinhardt's face set in determination, and he dropped back down, his arms shaking as he resumed the push-ups.
When they finally finished the push-ups, Weber ordered them to their feet, his expression unreadable as he looked them over. "Good. Now, we move on."
The recruits were led to a row of wooden benches where the Gewehr 98 rifles were laid out, each one polished to a dull shine.
Max picked up his assigned rifle, feeling its weight settle into his hands.
It was heavier than he expected, solid and cold, with a long barrel that gleamed faintly in the early morning light.
"This," Weber announced, "is your lifeline. You will learn every inch of it. You will clean it, you will care for it, and you will know it better than you know your own family. Because out there, this is the only family you'll have."
He demonstrated how to dismantle and reassemble the rifle, his hands moving with practiced precision, each motion smooth and controlled. "You will practice this until you can do it in your sleep. If your rifle jams, if it fails you in a moment of need, it's because you didn't do your job. And that will be the last mistake you ever make."
Max tried to follow along, his hands fumbling as he worked to match Weber's speed.
The metal felt cold and unforgiving under his fingers, each small mistake setting him back.
Around him, other men cursed under their breaths, struggling to keep up.
Weber moved among them, his eyes sharp, offering corrections and, when needed, a rough word or two.
He stopped in front of Max, watching him closely. "Müller, what's taking you so long? The enemy's not going to give you extra time to put your rifle back together."
Max gritted his teeth, his fingers trembling as he slid the bolt into place.
He handed the rifle to Weber, who inspected it with a critical eye before nodding curtly. "Passable. But barely. If that's the best you can do, you might as well pack up now."
Max felt a surge of frustration but bit back his response.
He knew better than to argue with Weber.
As the day went on, they practiced everything from marching drills to basic combat techniques, each exercise pushing them further than Max had thought possible.
His muscles screamed in protest, his mind numb with exhaustion, but he forced himself to keep going, refusing to let Weber see any weakness.
By the time the sun began to set, Max's entire body ached, his skin covered in a fine layer of sweat and grime.
He could barely stand, his legs threatening to give out beneath him.
But he wasn't the only one. Around him, other men were swaying on their feet, their faces pale with fatigue.
Weber watched them in silence, his face unreadable.
He let the silence hang, letting them feel the weight of their exhaustion, the strain in their limbs, the raw ache in their muscles.
Finally, he spoke, his tone surprisingly calm.
"Today, you learned a fraction of what you'll need to survive out there. If you think this is hell, remember that you're only scratching the surface. Out there, the enemy won't wait for you to catch your breath, and there'll be no one to help you up if you fall. My job is to make sure that every single one of you is prepared for that."
He scanned their faces, his gaze lingering on each man as if silently assessing who would make it and who wouldn't. "I don't care if you hate me. You can curse my name all you want. But when you're in the trenches, and that hatred keeps you alive, you'll understand why I pushed you so hard."
"Dismissed!" Weber's voice snapped them out of their daze.
The recruits staggered back to the barracks, a few of them muttering curses under their breath, but most too tired to speak.
Max felt his legs trembling, his muscles aching with each step.
He had survived the first day, barely, but he'd made it.
Inside the barracks, the men sank onto their bunks, pulling off their boots with groans of relief.
Max lay back, staring up at the wooden beams, his mind numb, his body heavy with fatigue.
Beside him, Karl managed a weak grin. "Hell of a first day, wasn't it?"
Max chuckled softly, though it hurt to laugh. "Yeah. And tomorrow, we get to do it all over again."
They both fell silent.
Max closed his eyes, his last thought drifting to home, to his mother and Leo.
He wondered if they'd ever understand what he was going through.
But as he drifted into a restless sleep, one thought held him steady: he was still here. And he'd keep going, no matter what it took.
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