The crack of my rifle echoed through the shattered parlor, the recoil jarring my shoulder as I fired into the haze of smoke blanketing the square. Bullets whined back at me, splintering the window frame and sending sharp slivers of wood flying like angry bees. I ducked low, heart pounding in my ears, fumbling with trembling hands to reload—slamming the bolt home, chambering another round. Peeking over the sill, I squeezed off shots at the advancing Sarbs, their figures murky shadows in the acrid fog, uniforms gray and muddied, faces twisted in grim determination. One dropped with a grunt, clutching his thigh; another spun sideways as my bullet found his shoulder. But they kept coming, wave after wave, bayonets fixed like spears in a phalanx.
Our machine guns from the church tower chattered relentlessly, hosing them down with lead, tracers glowing orange in the dim light. The first assault faltered, then broke—Sarbs falling back, leaving a carpet of bodies strewn across the cobblestones. Austrian comrades lay mingled with the enemy: twisted forms in olive drab, blood pooling dark and sticky under them. And worse, civilians caught in the maelstrom—a shopkeeper slumped against a wall, his apron stained red; an old woman face-down near her doorway, groceries scattered like forgotten toys. Even a child, small and broken, limbs akimbo. How could they do it? Their own artillery pounding their own town, shredding their people just to flush us out? The shells had turned Šabac into a charnel house—craters gaping like wounds, buildings gutted and smoldering. It made no sense, this madness. Were we all just pawns in some grand, bloody game? I shook the thought away, wiping sweat from my eyes. Survival first—philosophy could wait for peacetime, if it ever came.
In the brief respite, gunfire sputtering to echoes, I scanned the chaos for Karl. We'd been split when the barrage ended; I'd lost him in the scramble for cover. Smoke stung my nostrils, thick with the stench of cordite, blood, and burning wood. There—across the street, under a collapsed roof of a two-story house, timbers and tiles heaped in a jagged pile like a giant's discarded kindling. A low groan cut through the din. I bolted from my position, keeping low, zigzagging over rubble and leaping a crater. Bullets kicked up dirt at my heels, but I didn't stop. "Karl!" I whispered harshly, dropping to my knees and heaving at the debris. Splinters bit into my palms; a beam shifted with a creak. His hand shot out—filthy, knuckles white—grabbing mine like a lifeline.
"Franz... get me out," he rasped, voice weak but steady. I pulled harder, muscles straining, until he emerged coughing dust, his left leg bent at an unnatural angle, trouser leg torn and bloody. But alive—God, alive. His freckled face was ashen, smeared with grime, but that grin flickered. "Knew you'd come. Stubborn bastard."
"Save your breath," I muttered, slinging his arm over my shoulder. He winced as I hauled him up, his weight dragging on me like a sack of flour. We hobbled back toward our lines, dodging through alleyways choked with fallen masonry. A stray bullet pinged off a wall nearby; I flinched but kept moving. The battalion was regrouping in the ruins of what had been a bakery, the air heavy with the ghost scent of bread now overlaid with gunpowder. Lieutenant Hauser, his mustache dusted with plaster, huddled with the remaining sergeants, maps spread on a splintered counter. I caught fragments of their urgent whispers: "Casualties too high... supplies gone... Sarbs reinforcing." Hauser's voice cut sharp: "We can't hold. Fall back across the Sava. Regroup on the north bank. Nightfall—use the dark."
Night descended like a shroud, stars hidden behind clouds of smoke. We slipped out in small groups, abandoning heavy gear—machine guns spiked, ammunition crates left to the enemy. The streets were labyrinths of shadow, lit sporadically by the glow of dying fires that cast eerie flickers on crumbled walls. My boots crunched over glass and broken crockery; every step echoed too loudly in my ears. Karl limped heavily beside me, his breath ragged, one arm clutched around his side where a splinter had grazed him. "Just a scratch," he joked weakly, but I could see the pain etching lines on his face. The column snaked through narrow lanes, men whispering curses or prayers, rifles at the ready.
As we passed a row of half-collapsed homes, a sound pierced the tension—a soft, pitiful whimpering from behind a warped door, rising into muffled sobs. A girl, young by the pitch, crying in terror or pain. My gut twisted; I slowed, hand hovering near the latch. Was she alone? Hurt? Visions flashed: my little sister back in Vienna, long gone to fever, her cries echoing in memory. But Hauser's orders rang clear—no stops, no risks. "Keep moving," a sergeant hissed from behind. I swallowed hard, ignoring the pull, and pressed on. War stripped away humanity bit by bit; mercy was a luxury we couldn't afford.
Then the artillery resumed, as if the Sarbs had eyes in the dark. Whistles shrieked overhead—high, descending wails—followed by thunderous blasts that lit the night in orange blooms. We were perfect targets: marching in loose formation through those confined streets, silhouetted against fires. Explosions tore into us; men vaporized in mid-step, limbs and torsos hurled like rag dolls. A shell landed ahead, cratering the road—screams erupted as shrapnel scythed through ranks. Buildings groaned and collapsed in avalanches of stone and timber, burying the unlucky alive under tons of debris. Dust choked the air; I coughed, eyes watering, dragging Karl into a doorway for cover. "They're slaughtering us!" someone wailed nearby. Panic rippled—men breaking formation, scattering like rats.
But the worst came with the charge. Bugles blared triumphant from the outskirts, and Sarbs surged in—waves of them, rifles cracking, bayonets gleaming wicked in the firelight. Street-to-street it devolved into savagery: close-quarters hell where training meant nothing, only instinct. I fired from hip, dropping a shadow that loomed too close. Karl's pistol barked beside me, but he was slowing, breath wheezing. We backed into an alley, barricaded by overturned carts. A Sarb patrol rounded the corner—three of them, yelling in their guttural tongue. One lunged at Karl, bayonet thrusting like a serpent's strike. Karl twisted, but too slow—the blade punched through his chest with a sickening, wet crunch, emerging bloody from his back.
He gasped, eyes bulging in shock, blood bubbling from his lips like foam. He slumped against me, hands pawing weakly at the wound, crimson spilling over his fingers. "Franz... it... burns..." He spat blood, a wet cough that sprayed my face, his body shuddering. The Sarb yanked the blade free, grinning feral— I roared, pure rage, and shot him point-blank in the face. His head snapped back in a red mist; he crumpled boneless. The others fled as our comrades' fire drove them off. Karl slid down, gasping, eyes glazing. "Go... leave me... tell my ma..."
I knelt, tears blurring, but the shouts closed in—Sarbs everywhere, our retreat fracturing. "I'm sorry," I whispered, squeezing his hand one last time. Then I ran, joining the tattered remnants of the battalion streaming toward the river. Guilt clawed at me, but survival screamed louder.
The Sava appeared ahead, a black ribbon murmuring under the moonless sky. Chaos reigned: men plunging onto the pontoons, bridges groaning under frantic boots. Friendly machine guns on the north bank—our own—opened up, mistaking us for attackers in the gloom. Tracers zipped lethally close; bodies jerked and fell into the water. "Cease fire! It's us, damn you!" Hauser bellowed across the gap, waving a lantern. The guns stuttered to silence, but not before more of us lay bleeding.
Sarbs harried our heels, shots snapping from the banks. We crowded the pontoons—swaying, splintering under weight. Some, desperate, waded chest-deep into the current, rifles held high—only to be picked off, bodies swirling away in eddies, blood trailing like ink. I shoved onto a bridge, elbows sharp, the wood slick with river spray and blood. Almost there—safety's shore looming.
Pain erupted in my neck, a searing bite like a hornet's sting amplified a thousandfold. A Sarb bullet grazed deep, tearing flesh. I staggered, hand flying to the wound—warm blood pulsed between fingers, soaking my collar. Agony bloomed; I coughed, spitting metallic red, the world spinning. Legs buckled as I hit the north bank, comrades hauling me clear into the reeds. Home... the factory's clang, Vienna's bustling streets, faces of kin faded by time. I wouldn't see them again. Darkness pressed in, cold and absolute, whispers of regret fading with my breath.