November 11, 1918
I run until my lungs burn and my vision blurs, boots slipping in the churned mud. Craters gape like open graves around me, filled with shattered bodies and broken timber. I joined the army only months ago—just after my eighteenth birthday.
Now the line is gone.
The Allies are pouring through us.
Bullets shriek past my ears, snapping into the earth, kicking up dirt that stings my face. Artillery thunders without rhythm, each blast rattling through my ribs like it might shake me apart.
Something whistles—
Then the world erupts.
The explosion throws me off my feet. For a moment I'm weightless, then I slam into a crater full of cold, sucking mud. It fills my mouth, my nose. I choke, gag, spit, retch up what little I had eaten that morning.
"God—"
I try to move. Pain spikes through my left leg, sharp and absolute. I freeze, breathing hard, then force myself to look.
Bent wrong.
Broken.
A laugh escapes me—thin, disbelieving. "This is it? I'm going to die in a muddy hole?"
My hands shake. "Haven't even kissed a girl…"
Grandfather's voice echoes in my head—honor, courage, glory.
"There's no glory here," I mutter.
A soldier sprints past the lip of the crater.
He doesn't make it three steps.
The shell hits, and he—he's just gone. Something wet and hot splashes across my face, my uniform—
My mouth.
I gag violently, spitting, but some of it goes down. The taste is copper and salt and something far worse.
"God—" I retch again. "That's—"
Then—
Warmth.
Not outside. Inside.
It spreads through me, slow and steady, like heat sinking into my bones. The roar of battle dulls. The world…slows. Not stopping—but stretching, like time itself is dragging its feet.
My breath steadies.
My hands stop shaking.
"What…?"
Am I dying?
Footsteps crunch above me.
I look up.
A soldier stands at the edge of the crater, rifle already trained on my chest. His silhouette cuts against the gray sky.
"Don't shoot!" I raise my hands, heart hammering. "I surrender!"
He doesn't fire.
He studies me instead, eyes hard beneath the brim of his helmet. A cigar smolders at the corner of his mouth.
"You surrender, huh?" His voice is rough, almost bored. "Could just shoot you. Be easier."
"I don't want to die," I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "I'm eighteen. I—I want a life. A family."
He takes a slow drag, smoke curling into the cold air.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Matthias. Matthias Karl Eisenblut."
One eyebrow twitches. "That's a mouthful." He jerks his chin. "Mat, then. Drop your weapons."
My fingers fumble at my chest rig. Knife. Grenade. I toss them up and out of the crater.
He watches the whole time.
"Good," he says. "Now listen carefully. I'm coming down there. You try anything—anything—I put you down. Understood?"
I nod quickly.
He slides into the crater, boots sinking into the mud. Up close, he's bigger than I expected. He grabs my chest rig and hauls me up like I weigh nothing. Pain flares in my leg, and I grit my teeth to keep from crying out.
He slings me over his shoulder.
The world tilts.
We start moving.
"What's your name?" I manage.
He huffs. "James."
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For not shooting me."
He doesn't answer.
---
They throw me into a pen with the others—muddy, bleeding, silent. No one speaks much. There isn't much left to say.
I see James once more before he leaves. He doesn't look at me.
Then he's gone.
---
Time blurs after that.
A splint for my leg. A truck ride. Barbed wire and watchtowers.
A camp.
The war ends, but it doesn't feel like it.
Months pass. My leg heals crooked but usable. I talk with the others—farmers, students, boys like me. We all pretend we'll go back to who we were.
None of us believe it.
---
June 21.
Release.
---
Now I stand in Versailles, packed among men who look just as hollow as I feel, listening as the terms are read.
Each word lands heavier than artillery.
Territory lost. Reparations. Blame.
Something twists inside my chest—hot, bitter, familiar.
How is Germany supposed to survive this?
My hands clench at my sides.
This isn't peace.
It's punishment.
I turn before it's over.
I can't listen anymore.
---
The train ride back to Munich is long and silent.
I watch the countryside pass by through the window—scarred, tired, but still standing.
Just like us.
For now.