The dim glow of gas lamps flickered across the scarred wooden tables of Le Coq Rouge, our usual haunt in the winding streets of Montmartre. Paris in summer was a furnace, but inside the bar, the air was cool and thick with the haze of cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of spilled wine. I nursed a frothy mug of cold beer, the condensation dripping onto my fingers as I laughed with my mates—Pierre, the lanky artist with paint forever under his nails; Marcel, the burly mechanic who could fix anything with a wrench and a curse; and little Jacques, the bookish clerk who dreamed of writing the next great novel. We were all in our mid-twenties, carefree souls dodging the drudgery of daily life with jokes and rounds of drinks. War? That was something in the papers, distant thunder on the horizon.
Pierre was midway through a bawdy story about a model he'd sketched the night before when the door banged open. A newsboy tumbled in, face flushed, waving a stack of evening editions like they were flags of surrender. "Extra! Extra! Germano-Hungry invades Sarbiane! The Great Empire crosses borders—war declared!"
The bar fell silent, save for the clink of glasses and a murmur rippling through the crowd. Marcel snatched a paper, unfolding it with a snap. We huddled around, peering at the bold headlines screaming in fresh ink: "INVASION! Germano-Hungry Marches on Sarbiane—Russia Mobilizes!" The boy piped up, breathless: "It's official, messieurs. The Great United Front of Russia has joined against the Empire and Germano-Hungry. And us—the Republic—we're in it too! The Empire tried to push across our border, but our boys held 'em back. Failed miserably, they did!"
Jacques read aloud, his voice steady but edged with something new—excitement? Fear? "All healthy men of fighting age are called to arms. Defend the Republic! Enlist today!"
The bar erupted. Shouts of "Vive la France!" mixed with curses aimed at the "barbaric Huns" of the Empire. Pierre slammed his fist on the table, eyes blazing. "This is it, lads. Those bastards think they can trample Europa? Not while we breathe. We should join—pals together, like they say. A battalion of friends, shoulder to shoulder."
Marcel nodded, his massive shoulders rolling like he was already in a scrap. "Aye. For the Republic. For our homes. What say you, Adolphine?"
I stared into my beer, foam swirling like storm clouds. At twenty-six, I was a simple laborer in a textile mill, weaving fabrics for the rich while scraping by. No wife, no kids—just these fools around me, my brothers in all but blood. War sounded like adventure in the stories, but the papers painted it grim. Still, the fire in their eyes caught me. "Hell, why not? If we're going to fight, better with you lot than strangers. For the Republic."
We drained our mugs in a toast, the decision settling like a weight. That same afternoon, buoyed by liquid courage and patriotic fever, we marched to the recruitment office on the Boulevard Haussmann. The line snaked out the door—men from all walks: bakers, bankers, students, all buzzing with that same mix of nerves and bravado. The sergeant behind the desk eyed us wearily, stamping papers with a thud. "Names? Ages? Fit?" We signed on the dotted line, assigned to a pals battalion—friends enlisting together, training together, fighting together. "Report tomorrow for basics," he grunted. "You'll ship out in a week."
Training was a whirlwind blur in the barracks outside Paris. A week—barely enough to learn which end of the rifle to point at the enemy. We drilled from dawn to dusk: marching in the mud until our boots blistered, bayonet practice that left arms aching, lectures on gas masks and trench digging. The instructors barked like dogs: "The Empire's got mechanized beasts and those damned mages with their flying contraptions and enchanted bullets! But we've got spirit—French spirit!" We laughed it off during breaks, sharing smokes and stories, but the reality gnawed. Mages? Bullets that exploded or tracked you like hounds? It sounded like fairy tales, but the veterans' haunted eyes said otherwise.
Then came the train. We boarded at Gare de l'Est, a sea of khaki uniforms waving goodbye to tearful crowds—mothers clutching handkerchiefs, sweethearts blowing kisses. Paris faded behind us as the locomotive chugged eastward, toward the front. Inside the cramped cars, we played cards, sang bawdy songs, and boasted about the glory awaiting. "We'll be home by Christmas," Pierre declared, sketching caricatures of the Emperor on scraps of paper. Marcel flexed his muscles, joking he'd wrestle a tank. Jacques buried his nose in a book, but even he cracked smiles.
As the hours stretched, the landscape changed—fields giving way to scarred earth, villages hushed and empty. The air grew heavy, laced with distant rumbles. At first, we thought it thunder. But no—artillery. Booms echoing like giants' footsteps, flashes on the horizon painting the sky in angry reds and oranges. Explosions rattled the windows, closer now, shaking the cars. The songs died; cards scattered forgotten. I pressed my face to the glass, stomach twisting. What had we done? This wasn't adventure; it was madness. Pierre's face paled, Marcel's jokes fell flat, Jacques clutched his book like a talisman. Rethinking everything—the beer-fueled bravado, the hasty signatures—we hurtled toward the inferno, pals bound together in regret.