WWI - January, 1915

[herr_bookman]

January, 1915 arrived quicker than I thought it would. My parents tearfully shipped me off to a training camp just outside Donauwörth. Scared, I trembled as I held my mother for what I figured would be the last time.

I was scrawny, so my commanding officers put me in with the rest of the misfits, the 12th battalion. The COs lined up the recruits in a long hallway, stripped us of our possessions, and told us to mail them off to home. A high-ranking official prowled the hall, telling us what we’d signed up for and how it was going to be tough. He issued us our Soldbuch, or paybook and identification documents. The booklet contained information about the equipment issued, current unit of assignment, replacement units, medical information, awards, and leaves.

Then people screamed at me for twenty-four hours, trying to sort the recruits into divisions based on our test scores, whether we could play an instrument, and if we could swim. I couldn't swim, and I was told that I’d learn in basic. They gathered the recruits and told us that we had one last chance to confess. I kept my mouth shut.

My uniform didn't fit me quite right, but it was all they had and I was told to make it my own. I disapproved of the haircut.

It didn't take long for one of the newly-bald recruits to start mouthing off. "You're as soft as titty meat, sir," he'd said, and so I planned to avoid him forever. Because of the recruit's mouth, the whole regiment was forced to do so many sit ups, we had to hook our feet under our bunks and latch arms to complete them all. If anyone was dying, they were dead weight. By the time we were done, our freshly cleaned uniforms were caked with salt, and the sweat-slicked floor was black with scuff marks.

Lonely and sore and frightened, I’m ashamed to admit that I cried into my pillow the first night. When I felt tear tracks on my face in the morning, I vowed to never cry again.

"Achtung!" the barracks guard yelled at 0445, rousing the troops. I was already awake, so I rolled off of my straw mattress to wash my face. My hands trembled on the wash rag.

At about 0545, the Unterofficers formed squads under arms in the barracks for personal inspection. I tried to place the sheets on my bed as instructed--it's fine, they could bounce a Mark off of it--and succeeded only after the entire troop remade them the second time. I wondered vaguely if I was the only one to screw up.

Ten minutes later, the feldwebel placed me in my first squad with Krause, Strauss, and Eberstark. We were told to make nice, that we'd be relying on one another. The oberleutnants arrived at 0600 and the feldwebel reported the company to the senior oberleutnant present. I stood as stiffly as I could, but my CO still corrected my posture.

"Look to your left!" my oberleutnant barked. I turned my head obediently. "And to your right!" Another turn. "These are your brothers, now. You will depend on them, or you will die. Turn and meet your brothers."

I had read about this, the espirit de corps. German forces had created a brotherly bond of local fellow countrymen, keeping us in companion units. We were all from Bavaria, for example. The practice ostensibly reduced heavy losses.

"Hi," a mousy, brown-haired recruit said, offering his hand to shake. "My name's Dylan.”

I nearly recoiled. You’re the jerk who made us do all those sit ups!

The boy kept talking. “But I guess my name's actually Krause, here."

You're not curly-haired anymore, I thought, still angry with him. Dylan it is.

"Hello," I said crisply, nodding at the hand. I’d never had a last name, so I was assigned one. "I'm Krueger." It was a standard name meaning 'innkeeper', which my parents were.

"We actually went to the same school," Dylan said, and I blinked at him.

Wait, what? We did? I thought, shocked. I rallied myself, watching the foul-mouthed boy. "I know."

Dylan beamed at me. "Good luck during drills."

I nodded, trying not to think of my new brother as a statistic--one of the two million Germans dead in four years.

I met a young man my age named Strauss next, as well as his friend Eberstark. They seemed attached at the hip already.

"Krueger, is it?" Strauss said, shaking my hand. "Welcome to hell and all."

Eberstark laughed, and I gave Strauss a pained smile. "Thanks," I said. "You, too."

I forced my attention forward as my oberleutnant began speaking again. "I am Oberleutnant Nadel, your commanding officer. Your feldwebel will report all discrepancies, leaves, and company matters to me."

Nadel was terrifying. He was the all-seeing eye, the leader, a presence I could not ignore. He was as tall as Yugo and just as lanky, but I didn't dare underestimate either of them when it came to speed, power, and sheer persistence. I found that I had to rely on my oberleutnant for everything--when to eat, when to sleep, how to tie knots, what to study.

I was surprised, however, to learn that German military tradition preferred initiative to obedience. My COs were respectful and encouraging, trying to mold me into a resourceful soldier. I began to feel that I didn't want to let my oberleutnant down. I was fueled by Nadel's confidence in me.

"Krueger!" Nadel barked. "What's the answer?"

"Two hundred and thirty seven, sir!" I reported, standing straight.

"Nice job, Krueger," the oberleutnant said, and I allowed myself a small smile. "Now we're marching off to the drill field. Are you ready, men?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" I said along with the rest.

"Achtung! Forward, march!"

Drills were a test of endurance for me, one I failed miserably. Multiple repetitions of forward lunges, squat benders, high jumpers, and pushups just about killed me. I fell, and Strauss helped me up with a smile. By 1115, when the recruits returned to prepare for the noon meal, my chest was afire. I still panted as I sat down in the mess hall, and Dylan regarded me fretfully.

"I'm f-fine," I eked out, clutching my heart.

"If you say so," Dylan murmured.

Lunch was a substantial beef stew, prepared in a large kettle. Fruits and desserts were not provided, and we soldiers were expected to supplement our meals with foods we bought or were sent from home. I choked the stew down--it was all they had--and wondered if Rae would think less of me for abandoning vegetarianism.

"Seriously? There ain't no fruit?" a man called Abendroth said, placing his boot on the bench. "Are they trying to kill us with scurvy?"

Some people laughed, but I didn't think it was funny.

The afternoon brought more drills.

"Are you listening, soldier?" Oberleutnant Nadel said.

"Sir, yes, sir!" I shouted, until my voice was hoarse. Sudden hate welled up within me. I abhorred that I'd missed my chance to leave, and that I was forced to prepare to die.

Aside from individual barracks training, my day consisted of hygiene, physical training, first aid, bayonet drill, theoretical courses in democracy and legal regulations, and rifle manual of arms accompanied by practice sighting and dry fire. I began memorizing my handbook in and out, and took test after written test.

I found that I didn't enjoy shooting practice as much as I thought I would. I smashed my thumb in the bolt and it was too damn loud. Cleaning the gun, however, I thought fascinating. The M1893 rifle had an eight round block clip, and cycled with each pull of the straight bolt. I often wondered what Ellen or Shephard would think of such a primitive gun. I dreamed about shooting well enough to make them proud.

I didn't mind running. The jogs reminded me of my dawn runs around the lake with Rae--and I was good at it. Nadel had me set the pace, which prompted groans from the men in my company and pride from me.

Upon completion of the assigned daily routine, I staggered back to the Kaserne--the four-story stone barracks--to prepare for the evening meal of tea and bread. Dylan approached me, and leaned on my bunk.

"Hey," the boy said. "Are you headed to the canteen? I hear five pfennigs buys half a litre of beer and you can get a pipe of tobacco for one."

"I don't smoke or drink," I said.

"Oh, good," Dylan said, smiling a little. "Neither do I."

I didn't know what to say to that. I sank down onto my bed, resting my aching feet.

Dylan hesitated. I wanted to tell him to get on with it, but I held my tongue. "This... This is hard, isn't it?" Dylan finally said, watching me with a hollow-eyed look.

I nodded, head heavy. I was weary, more worn than I thought I'd be. I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting sudden tears, fighting the urge to open every door in the barracks. "Yes. Yes, it's really hard."