The train jolted to a halt with a hiss of steam and the screech of iron on iron, shaking me from a fitful doze. I blinked against the harsh sunlight streaming through the grimy windows, my neck stiff from hours slumped against the hard wooden seat. We were somewhere south, deep in the borderlands, far from the familiar spires of Vienna. The air outside was thick and humid, carrying the earthy scent of river mud mixed with the acrid tang of coal smoke from the engine. My battalion poured out onto the gravel platform, boots crunching underfoot, men groaning as they stretched cramped limbs and adjusted their packs. Rifles clattered, voices murmured in a mix of excitement and nerves. Karl was right there beside me, his freckled face split in that easy grin of his, as if we were heading to a festival instead of a fight.
"Smell that, Franz?" he said, inhaling deeply like it was fresh bread. "That's victory in the air. No more factory drudgery—this is living!"
I forced a chuckle, but my mouth was dry. At twenty-eight, I felt ancient next to some of these lads, fresh-faced boys barely out of school, their eyes wide with the thrill of it all. Karl, only a year younger than me, had always been the optimistic one back at the engine plant, the guy who could turn a twelve-hour shift into a story worth laughing about over beers. Now here we were, uniforms still stiff and new, rifles heavy in our hands. I scanned the horizon: rolling hills dotted with scrubby trees, and in the distance, the glint of the Sava River like a silver snake cutting through the land.
Our lieutenant, a stern-faced man named Hauser with a mustache like a broom, gathered us in ranks. His voice cut through the chatter like a whip. "Listen up! Orders from command: we take Šabac. It's a key town on the river—roads and that rail line run straight through it to Belgrade. We hold it, we cut the Sarbs' throat. First, we cross the Sava. Engineers, get those pontoons up. Infantry, form lines. Move!"
We marched. The sun climbed higher, turning the dirt road into a furnace. Dust kicked up in choking clouds, coating my tongue and stinging my eyes. My pack dug into my shoulders, the straps already chafing through the wool tunic. Sweat trickled down my back, soaking my shirt. Karl kept pace beside me, humming a patriotic tune under his breath, but even he fell quiet as the hours dragged on. We passed abandoned farms—fields overgrown, houses with doors hanging open, as if the locals had fled at the first whisper of war. Birds wheeled overhead, their cries mocking our heavy steps. My mind wandered back to the factory: the rhythmic clang of hammers, the hiss of steam engines I'd helped build. Those machines felt distant now, like a dream. What was I doing here?
By late afternoon, the Sava came into view. It was wider than I'd imagined, a sluggish brown ribbon maybe a hundred meters across, flanked by reeds and low bluffs on the far side. The water looked deceptively calm, but I could see the current tugging at debris floating downstream. Engineers swarmed the bank, hammering together pontoon sections—floating platforms of lashed timber and empty barrels that bobbed unsteadily as they were shoved into place. Hauser barked more orders, positioning machine-gun teams in the shallows for cover. We lined up in companies, hearts pounding. I checked my rifle for the tenth time: bolt smooth, magazine full. The air hummed with tension.
Then it happened. A crack from across the river—sharp, like a branch snapping. Then another, and another. Bullets whined past, slapping into the mud with wet thuds, kicking up fountains in the water. "Contact!" someone yelled. Men dove for cover behind rocks and carts. I hit the dirt, face pressed into the damp earth, as our own guns roared back. The machine guns chattered relentlessly, tracers arcing like fiery threads toward the tree line on the opposite bank. Flashes there—muzzle bursts from Sarb rifles. Our artillery, positioned a kilometer back, joined in: a deep boom, then shells screaming overhead to explode in gouts of flame and dirt among the enemy positions.
They broke quickly. I peeked up to see figures scrambling back into the woods, leaving behind the sprawled forms of their dead. Cheers erupted along our line. "Push 'em!" Hauser shouted. The first company advanced onto the pontoons, boots thudding on wood. Karl and I were in the second wave. "Stay low," he muttered, gripping my arm. We shuffled forward, rifles held chest-high, the bridge swaying under our weight. Halfway across, exposed like targets at a fair, the Sarbs fired again.
This time it was hell. Bullets zipped and cracked, splintering the railings, punching holes in the planks. Water erupted around us. A man in front of me jerked backward, a red hole blooming in his forehead—he crumpled without a word, sliding off into the current. Another screamed as a round tore through his leg, blood spraying. "Keep moving!" the sergeant bellowed. I ran, slipped on blood-slick wood, caught myself. Karl was ahead, firing wildly at the shore. A body tumbled past—Private Mueller, his chest a ruin. Without thinking, I dropped behind him, using his corpse as a shield. The smell was immediate, overwhelming: hot blood, piss, shit. Bullets thudded into the flesh inches from my face, warm spatters hitting my cheek. I gagged, but stayed put, whispering prayers I hadn't said since childhood. My hands shook on my rifle. Why hadn't I fired? Fear locked me down.
The covering fire intensified, and the Sarb shots slackened. I scrambled up, legs like jelly, and made the far bank. We regrouped in the reeds, breath ragged, then charged. Bayonets fixed, we swept through the trees, overrunning foxholes. I finally squeezed the trigger—once, twice—hitting nothing, but it felt like action. The Sarbs fled toward Šabac, a cluster of low buildings maybe a kilometer inland. We pursued, hearts fueled by adrenaline. The town was eerily quiet: cobblestone streets empty, windows shuttered, a church steeple looming like a sentinel. We cornered the last of their company in the central square—a ragged group of maybe fifty, uniforms muddied, faces pale with exhaustion. Some threw down weapons, hands up; others fought. Shots rang out, echoes bouncing off stone walls. I saw Karl bayonet a man who lunged at him, the blade sinking in with a sickening crunch. By dusk, it was over. Prisoners knelt in rows, guarded; the dead lay where they fell.
That night, the men celebrated like conquerors. We ransacked a tavern for bread, cheese, and bottles of harsh local wine. Fires crackled in the square, casting flickering shadows. Karl passed me a flask, his eyes bright. "First blood, Franz! We did it. Told you it'd be quick." Laughter echoed—stories exaggerated already, toasts to the Emperor, songs belted out off-key. I joined in, the wine warming my gut, dulling the edges of the day. But as I stared into the flames, I saw the faces of the dead: our men in the river, the Sarbs in the square. Was this victory? It felt like survival.
We fortified Šabac over the next days. Dug trenches ringing the outskirts, piled sandbags in doorways, set up machine guns in attics overlooking the rail yard. The town's rail line was our prize—a single track that could ferry troops and supplies deep into Sarbiane. We knew they'd come for it; the terrain favored defense, with hills channeling any approach. Patrols reported movements: Sarb scouts probing, then vanishing. Rumors flew—thousands massing, artillery trains rumbling in. I spent the time cleaning my rifle, sharpening my bayonet, trying not to think about home. Karl and I shared watches, trading jokes to pass the hours, but tension built like a storm.
Twelve days in, it broke. Dawn light barely pierced the mist when the first shell whistled in. Artillery—Sarb heavies, pinpoint accurate. The square erupted: cobblestones shattered, men vaporized in blasts of fire and shrapnel. Private Lehmann vanished in a pink mist mid-laugh. Another shell hit nearby; the shockwave hurled me sideways, ears ringing, dirt pelting like rain. Screams pierced the din—gut-wrenching, animal howls. "My legs! Oh God, my legs!" A soldier writhed, intestines spilling from a shredded belly, begging for someone to shoot him. Others crawled, faces masks of agony, pleading for mothers, for mercy. Blood slicked the ground, the air thick with smoke and the coppery reek of slaughter.
I bolted for cover, diving through the splintered door of a nearby house—a modest stone cottage, furniture overturned from our earlier searches. I huddled in the parlor, back against a wall, as shells hammered outside. Plaster dust sifted from the ceiling with each impact; windows shattered in sprays of glass. My hands clamped over my ears, but the screams seeped through. How could men make those sounds? It twisted something inside me, a raw unease that made my stomach churn. I wasn't a hero; I was just trying to breathe.
The barrage lifted after an eternity, leaving a stunned silence broken by moans. Then came the whistles—Sarb officers signaling the advance. Bugles blared, boots thundered on approach roads. They'd encircled us under the guns, cutting off retreat. Shouts in their tongue, the crack of rifles starting up. Our survivors fired back from trenches and windows. The real battle was here. I peeked through a crack in the wall, rifle ready, heart slamming. Shadows moved in the smoke—Sarb infantry closing in.