The Calm Before the Storm

As we were on our way to the front, the truck rattled as it sped down the war-torn road, its metal frame groaning under the weight of the soldiers packed inside. The air was thick with the scent of damp canvas, gun oil, and unwashed uniforms. Rain drummed against the roof, a steady rhythm that did little to drown out the murmurs of the men within. Some whispered nervously, others cracked jokes, but all of them knew what lay ahead.

I sat near the back, my rifle resting between his legs, my hands unconsciously tightening around the worn wood. Peter leaned against the cold metal wall of the truck, staring at the floor, lost in thought. The tension in the air was palpable. The announcement had been abrupt, the orders absolute. The Wilmenians had crossed Lake Caden, and now, it is upto us to hold them back, or better, push them out of Baronia even just for a little while.

"This is it," Peter muttered under his breath. "No more training. No more kitchen duty. Just straight to hell."

I didn't reply. What was there to say? We all knew what awaited us. The propaganda posters back at camp had always depicted war as a grand adventure—flags waving, heroic speeches, brave men marching into battle for the glory of Baronia. But none of us seem to believe that anymore. Not after the hushed rumors, not after the older boys had gone and never returned.

Across the truck, a lanky soldier named Ernst was fumbling with his cigarette, trying to keep it from going out in the damp air. "Damn rain," he muttered. "You'd think the sky itself was crying for us."

"Crying? More like pissing on us," said Manfred, one of the more seasoned recruits. He had a reputation for being loud and brash, but tonight, even he seemed subdued. "Bet those Wilmenian bastards are sitting nice and dry in their fancy tanks while we get shipped off like cattle."

"You scared, Manfred?" someone teased.

Manfred snorted. "Of course I am. Only an idiot wouldn't be. But I'll be damned if I let those bastards see it."

Peter glanced at me. "You've been quiet. What's on your mind?"

I hesitated. I could still hear the echoes of my dream, the whispering voices, the hollow eyes. "Just thinking about home. My mother, my little sister. They don't even know where I am right now."

Peter nodded solemnly. "Yeah. I wonder if my parents even got the letter saying I was conscripted. Knowing how the Empire operates, they probably didn't bother sending one."

The truck hit a pothole, jolting everyone inside. Someone cursed as their helmet clattered to the floor. The driver, hidden behind a steel partition, shouted something unintelligible over the roar of the engine.

"How long until we get there?" Ernst asked, flicking the ashes from his cigarette.

"Soon," came a voice from the front. "Outpost's just beyond the next ridge. Command wants us reinforcing the line before sunrise."

A grim silence settled over the truck. The rain continued its relentless assault on the canvas roof, a steady drumming that matched the rhythm of our hearts. I was shifting all over the truck, trying different sitting positions to get comfortable, but it was impossible. I cannot ignore my fear anymore, I am here, the real thing, there was no turning back. My uniform clung to my skin, damp and itchy. My rifle felt heavier than it should have.

"First time on the front?" A deep voice cut through the murmurs. It was Sergeant Albrecht, a veteran who had seen more battles than any of them cared to count. His face was lined with age and experience, his eyes cold and calculating.

Most of the boys nodded.

"Then let me give you some advice," Albrecht continued. "Forget everything they taught you in training. The battlefield doesn't care about discipline, doesn't care about formations or perfect shooting stances. Out there, it's chaos. If you want to survive, stick with your squad, keep your head down, and don't try to be a hero."

"Sounds reassuring," Peter muttered.

Albrecht smirked. "War isn't reassuring, boy. It's a meat grinder. The only difference is whether you're the one turning the crank or the one getting ground up."

Manfred let out a low whistle. "And here I thought this would be a nice camping trip."

A chuckle rippled through the truck, but it was forced, hollow. No one really found it funny. They were all too aware of what was coming.

The truck began to slow, the engine growling as the tires crunched against the muddy road. Outside, faint lights flickered in the distance—the outpost. Our destination. I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around my rifle.

"This is it," Albrecht said, standing as the truck came to a halt. "Welcome to the Hell Grinder, boys."

The rear doors swung open, and the cold night air rushed in, biting against their damp uniforms. The smell of mud, smoke, and something more acrid—gunpowder, maybe—hung in the air. The rain had lessened to a drizzle, but the ground was already a mess of deep puddles and uneven terrain.

One by one, the soldiers filed out, boots sinking into the mud. The outpost was a hastily constructed series of trenches and bunkers, manned by weary, hollow-eyed men who barely spared them a glance. The sound of distant artillery rumbled in the distance, a low, ominous growl that sent shivers down my spine.

A lieutenant strode up to us, his uniform stiff and immaculate despite the conditions. "You're late," he snapped. "Get to your assigned positions. You're reinforcing the southern trench. Move it!"

Albrecht led the way, guiding them through the maze of trenches. The walls were slick with mud, reinforced with sandbags that looked like they could collapse at any moment. I felt the weight of the earth pressing in around me, the air thick with dampness and the metallic tang of blood.

"Find an empty spot, get settled," Albrecht ordered. "You won't be sleeping much, but try to rest while you can."

I dropped my pack, leaning against the trench wall. Peter slumped beside me, rubbing his face with his hands. "Well," Peter said, voice heavy with exhaustion, "we made it."

Hans glanced up at the sky, where the clouds had begun to break apart, revealing slivers of moonlight. "Yeah," he whispered. "But for how long?"

No one had an answer.

The night dragged on. Occasionally, distant gunfire broke the silence, sending a ripple of tension through the trench. The older soldiers barely reacted. They had seen it all before. But for us and the other boys, every sound, every distant explosion felt like a harbinger of what was to come.

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the rain finally stopped. A brief, fragile silence settled over the battlefield.

Then the first shell hit.

The world exploded into chaos.