Under Fire

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. My breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of my uniform and the rifle slung across my back dragging me down. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not this fast. Not this bad.

"No idea," Peter gasped, glancing over his shoulder. His usually composed face was twisted with worry. "The Wilmenians must've thrown everything they had at it."

Ahead of us, Captain von Hilten barked orders, his usual smug expression now replaced by something I rarely saw—fear. The color had drained from his face, and for the first time, he didn't seem like the omnipotent leader we had all come to fear and hate. "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."

I didn't share his humor. 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 heart of Baronia. 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, blood, and desperation. The air inside was thick with the scent of metal and gun oil, and the noise of boots clanging against the cold stone floor echoed off the walls. Dozens of others—soldiers, barely men, most of them—rushed inside, all vying for equipment, some frantic, some resigned. Chaos reigned as quartermasters yelled out orders, trying in vain to manage the flood of bodies, most of them pushing and shoving to get to the supplies first. The once disciplined order of the Empire was crumbling faster than I could process.

"Hans! Over here!" Peter waved me toward a corner where he had managed to grab a rifle for himself. It was a fleeting moment of luck in a sea of uncertainty.

The quartermaster, a disheveled figure with eyes too wide, 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. No one was prepared for this.

"This is it?" I muttered under my breath, staring at the weapon in disbelief. It looked like something pulled from the scrap heap, yet it was the best I could hope for.

"Better than nothing," Peter said, though his voice carried little confidence. He was usually so calm, so collected, but now, I could hear the uncertainty creeping into his tone. Just like me.

Von Hilten stormed into the room, his boots clanging like a death knell, his voice cutting through the din. "Move out! Now! The line is faltering, and you're all that stands between the Wilmenians and Baronia!"

The urgency in his voice, once commanding and full of authority, now only added to the sense of dread that had already settled in my stomach. 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 hollow thuds of explosions. The air smelled of gunpowder and death. It was all too real.

As we approached the front, the scene before us was chaos incarnate. Artillery shells whistled through the air, exploding in bursts of fire and shrapnel. The ground beneath us seemed to tremble with each blast, and the air was thick with smoke, obscuring the horizon. Soldiers scrambled to hold their positions, many falling under the relentless onslaught of the Wilmenian forces. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut—this wasn't a battlefield. It was a massacre.

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 that echoed through the battlefield. Some were calling for help, others for death.

The air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat, the iron tang of war. I could taste it in my mouth.

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. His hands were shaking, but his voice remained steady. My hands, however, trembled as I fumbled to load the first magazine. The world seemed to spin around me, the noise of war becoming an overwhelming, blurring hum.

"Hans," Peter whispered, his voice barely audible over the noise, but the fear in it was unmistakable. "Do you think we'll make it?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. There were no promises left to make.

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. It felt like the world was crashing down on me, and I was powerless to stop it.

"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. The sound of automatic fire drowned out the chaos around me, the hot shells ejecting from the weapon in rapid succession. It was nothing like the drills we had been forced to endure in the barracks. This was raw, messy, and horrifying. The targets weren't cardboard cutouts or painted targets—they were real, breathing men. The coldness of the metal in my hands did nothing to stave off the heat of fear that burned in my chest.

The world around me became a blur of explosions, screams, and gunfire. I barely noticed the mortar shell that hit its mark nearby, the shockwave of the explosion throwing me off my feet. I hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of me, and for a moment, everything went silent. The ringing in my ears drowned out the world, and my vision blurred.

"Hans!" Peter's voice cut through the haze, distant and muffled, like I was hearing him underwater.

I forced myself to my feet, my hands coated in mud and blood—though I didn't know whose. I looked around, but the smoke and dust made it impossible to make sense of the battlefield. It was madness. I could barely hear anything over the pounding in my chest, but Peter was there, crouched behind a makeshift barricade, reloading his rifle with frenzied speed.

"Stay down!" he shouted, motioning for me to take cover.

I dove beside him, the gravel biting into my skin as I slid into the relative safety of the trench. My heart was racing, my thoughts spinning in every direction at once. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to get as far away from this nightmare as possible. But there was nowhere to go. There was no escape from this hell.

"We're not going to last," Peter muttered, his voice shaking as he stared across the battlefield. His eyes were wide, his hands trembling as he reloaded. "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. Not when I could see the truth in his eyes. We were running out of time.

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. The world around me was chaos—explosions, gunfire, shouts—but the magazine felt like the only thing that mattered. Without it, I was as good as dead.

A shadow loomed over me, and I looked up to see a Wilmenian soldier, his rifle raised, aiming directly at me. Time seemed to slow, and in that moment, I thought it was over. This was it.

"Hans, move!" Peter's voice came from behind me, but it was too late. The shot rang out, and I braced for the impact.

But Peter was faster. He tackled me, the force of his body sending us both sprawling across the muddy ground. The shot missed, whizzing past my ear, and Peter fired back with a sharp, controlled squeeze of the trigger. The Wilmenian soldier fell, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

I stared at Peter, my chest heaving, struggling to keep my bearings. His face was pale, but his eyes were locked on mine, filled with something I couldn't quite place. Maybe it was relief. Or maybe it was fear.

"Don't freeze up," Peter said, his voice hard, his hands 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, coiled tight in my gut, but now it burned alongside something else—a desperate need to survive.

For Peter. For myself. For the faint hope that we'll see another day.