Chương 3: One Week In

By the seventh day, Max Müller had settled into the routine of Camp Wilhelm, but nothing felt routine about it.

The men moved with a stiffness that spoke of muscles strained past their limits.

Every bone in Max's body ached, yet every morning he pushed himself out of his bunk, dressed quickly, and lined up outside just before dawn, ready to face whatever Sergeant Weber had planned.

That first week was a full of relentless drills, weapons training, and long marches under the weight of heavy packs.

But beyond the physical strain, the camp had its own rhythm, a relentless schedule that left little room for anything but obedience.

Each day was divided into blocks of intense activity, with only the briefest of pauses between them.

Weber's rules were simple but unyielding: everyone had to move together, eat together, and train together, and no one got to rest until everyone met his standards.

The camp was organized with the precision Max expected from the German military.

Barracks stood in neat rows, with the mess hall, latrines, and training grounds laid out in orderly fashion.

Everywhere Max looked, men were moving with discipline, their boots thudding against the hard-packed dirt, their faces set with determination or, more often, exhaustion.

Each morning began with a bugle blast that ripped through the barracks, echoing off the walls.

Within sixty seconds, every man was expected to be up, dressed, and in formation outside.

Weber would be there waiting, his eyes scanning the line, looking for any sign of weakness or sloppiness.

He never hesitated to single out anyone whose collar wasn't straight or whose boots weren't polished to his exacting standards.

The men quickly learned that any lapse in discipline, no matter how small, led to extra drills for the entire group.

And it wasn't just the basics. Weber was relentless in pushing the men to do everything faster, better, more precisely.

Even a minor mistake a loose button, an unshaven face meant an extra set of push-ups or laps around the camp for everyone.

By the end of the first week, Max had perfected the art of shaving in the dark, lacing his boots in seconds, and making his bed with military precision.

There was no room for error, no tolerance for excuses.

Each day's physical training was brutal.

They'd start with miles of running, packs weighing down their shoulders, and every step pounding through their bones.

Then came calisthenics: push-ups, pull-ups, and climbing walls set up around the training ground.

Max's body ached constantly, and he fell into bed each night feeling as if he'd been wrung dry, but he pushed himself harder each morning.

Max quickly earned a reputation among the other recruits for his determination.

He was usually among the first to finish the exercises, his form clean, his endurance solid.

Yet no matter how well he performed, Weber never gave him any recognition.

If anything, the better Max did, the more Weber seemed to single him out, pushing him harder, calling him out in front of the others.

One afternoon, after a long run, Weber called out, "Müller! You think you're better than the rest?"

Max, catching his breath, glanced around at the others, unsure how to respond. "No, sir," he said, keeping his voice steady.

Weber stepped closer, his voice sharp. "Then prove it. You don't get to rest until everyone here completes the drill as fast as you."

Max's stomach dropped, but he nodded. "Yes, sir."

The rest of the men pushed themselves, inspired and slightly annoyed by Max's endurance.

But when one recruit lagged, Max jogged beside him, encouraging him, helping him push through the exhaustion.

Slowly, the men began to work together, driving each other forward.

That was Weber's goal, Max realized: not to break them, but to make them rely on each other. And it was working.

Meals were the only real break the men got, but even that was hardly restful.

The food was plain thin stew, bread, and the occasional piece of sausage.

The portions were small, just enough to keep them going, but not enough to feel full.

In the mess hall, Max would sit with Karl and a few other recruits he'd gotten to know: Otto, the young man who had stumbled on the first run but had since improved, and Reinhardt, a quiet, lanky recruit who had struggled through the first few days.

They ate quickly, knowing that every second mattered.

"Do you think he'll ever be satisfied?" Otto asked one evening, his voice low.

Karl snorted, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Weber wasn't within earshot. "Not a chance. Man's made of stone."

Max shook his head, his spoon scraping the bottom of his bowl. "He's pushing us for a reason. He knows what it'll take to survive out there."

Reinhardt looked doubtful. "Feels like he just enjoys watching us suffer."

Max didn't answer, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Weber's methods, harsh as they were, had a purpose.

The man didn't want to break them. He wanted to make sure they were ready for whatever hell awaited them on the battlefield.

Every day included weapons training. They spent hours with the Gewehr 98 rifles, learning to dismantle and reassemble them, practicing until their fingers were numb.

Weber would walk among them, scrutinizing every motion, every flicker of hesitation.

Max was determined to master the rifle. He studied each part, committing every step of assembly to memory, his hands moving with increasing speed and precision.

But no matter how quickly he finished, Weber would find a flaw, something to critique.

One day, Max managed to reassemble his rifle in record time, his hands moving automatically through each step.

He felt a flicker of pride as he handed the rifle to Weber for inspection.

Weber looked it over, then handed it back with a grunt. "Too slow, Müller. Out there, a single second's delay can get you killed. Do it again."

Max bit back his frustration and did as he was told.

He could see the same exhaustion and tension in the faces of the men around him, each of them pushing themselves, knowing that any mistake would mean extra drills for everyone.

Despite the relentless pace, Max began to feel a strange satisfaction in mastering the skills.

He could strip and reassemble the rifle in seconds, his hands moving without thought, each part fitting perfectly into place.

He knew that these drills, repetitive and grueling as they were, were building a foundation, training his body and mind to react instinctively.

One of the hardest parts of the training came in the form of endurance drills.

They were given sandbags to carry back and forth across the training field, lifting them, running with them, dropping them, and repeating the process over and over.

The men's faces grew pale, sweat dripping down their foreheads as they struggled to keep up.

Weber watched them impassively, his arms crossed. "You think this is pointless?" he shouted. "You think carrying a sack of sand makes you a soldier?"

No one dared answer, but the question hung in the air.

"You carry that weight because, one day, it might be your fellow soldier you're dragging across the field. Or it might be the pack that holds your only chance of survival. You carry it because that's what's expected of you. That's what you owe to each other."

And when one of the men, a short, stocky recruit named Hans, collapsed, Weber didn't let him stay down.

He marched over, grabbing Hans by the arm and hauling him to his feet.

"Get up, Hans," Weber snapped. "You're not done. You don't get to quit just because you're tired."

Hans looked up, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, but he nodded, struggling to his feet.

He grabbed his sandbag, his expression set with determination, and resumed the drill.

By the end of the first week, Max could see the changes in himself and in the men around him.

They were harder, faster, more resilient.

They had learned to move as one, to cover for each other, to push through exhaustion and pain.

That evening, after the week's final drill, Max lay on his bunk, staring up at the wooden ceiling.

Around him, the other men were quiet, each lost in his own thoughts, exhaustion evident in their faces.

Karl leaned over, his voice low. "You did well this week, Max. We all did."

Max nodded, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie.

They were no longer just individuals; they were a unit, bound by the shared trials of the past seven days.

The door creaked open, and everyone instinctively went still.

Weber stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the room.

He paused, his face unreadable.

"One week down," he said, his voice low. "Some of you have impressed me. Some of you… well, let's just say you'll need more time."

His eyes lingered on Hans, Reinhardt, and a few others who'd struggled through the drills.

"But none of you are finished. Every day from here will be harder. More relentless. Some of you may wish you'd never signed up. But remember this: when you're out there, facing the enemy, you'll thank me for every push-up, every mile, every extra drill I put you through."

He let his words sink in, giving them a moment to process. Then, almost reluctantly, he added, "There's one thing you should know about me. I don't want to see a single one of you fail. You don't make it through this camp, that's on me too. And I don't intend to lose a single man, not here, not out there."

With that, he turned and strode out of the barracks, leaving the recruits in stunned silence.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Otto gave a low whistle.

"Did he just… give us a compliment?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Max smirked, too tired to do more. "I think that's the closest we'll get."

Karl chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, I'll take it."

The men settled back into their bunks, the exhaustion finally claiming them as the lights dimmed.

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