Chapter 5:

(Potsdam Military Academy: Potsdam, Germany - September 24, 1914)

Colonel Ansgar Bartsch of the German Army flipped through a blue folder filled with documents on his new officer in training, Wilhelm Klink. He scanned through his gymnasium transcript, university records, birth certificate, criminal background check, medical history, he had just about every piece of information on Klink. By the time he finished reading, he would know everything about the 20-year-old cadet from any offenses against the law to what his favorite color was.

What felt like an eternity finally came to an end about 45 minutes later, and Bartsch plopped the folder down onto his desk as he eyed the young man before him carefully. He placed his arms on the desktop and laced his fingers together. His face remained completely neutral, making it near impossible to tell what he was thinking or how he was feeling.

"You have an impressive background, Klink," he finally said, in a rough and scratchy tone. "No run-ins with the law, graduated in the top 50% of your graduating class from gymnasium, currently attending the university in Munich for a double major in mathematics and music performance. Think I might even recall your father from when I was here for training; General Otto Klink is his name, correct?"

Klink, who sat before the frightening man, swallowed a large lump down his throat as the colonel gawked at him like an animal ready to kill its prey. He wore a newly bought cadet's uniform, his officer's cap sitting neatly in his lap. The extensive hair loss he suffered through his last couple years in gymnasium had finally come to an end, leaving him only a third of his hair and would be the only amount he would have for the rest of his life. And while his bald spot shined a bit in the dim room lighting, his light blue eyes flickered with severe anxiety as he tried to remember how to speak. Eventually he was able to nod in response. "Ja, jawohl, Herr Oberst. That is him, Sir."

"I think your brother was here for a short time, too, back in early February or something. Dishonorably discharged from service after being here for only four months. Believe he was discovered sleeping with a general's daughter in order to get a promotion to captain." Bartsch added, his voice completely lifeless.

Klink slid back a bit in his chair as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and fear. He again swallowed. "Herr Oberst, if you're suggesting I might be anything like my brother, I can promise you otherwise."

Bartsch spent the longest time just staring at him. So much so that Klink began to wonder if the man had entered some sort of trance or state of psychosis. As the new cadet was about to ask if he was feeling alright, the colonel gave a short nod. "Alright," he began. "I'll give you a chance to prove yourself. You'll be assigned to the trenches after some basic combat training for a few months with the other cadets. If you don't wash out too, we can go from there."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Klink said, fearing this was about to go from bad to worse. "Wash out? What do you mean by that?"

"Wash out," Bartsch repeated. "You know…" He took a swinging motion to his neck and made a crack noise with his tongue, causing Klink to lean back in his chair and shudder at the discomforting sound.

"I hope it doesn't come to that, Herr Oberst," Klink answered meekly.

"So do I, Cadet," Bartsch said, scribbling orders down on a sheet of paper. He tore it off from the pad and handed it to Klink. "But you know what they say; s*** happens."

Klink reluctantly took the orders in his hand, saluted his new commanding officer, then made his way back into the administrative hallway after being dismissed. Once alone and making sure no one was nearby, Klink looked down at his orders for trench training and rubbed the side of his head, a pounding headache beginning to form. "But why does it always have to happen to me?" He moaned.

After just five months of combat training, Klink had gained the approval from several of his drill sergeants for his excellence in operating firearms, weaponry, and displaying superior leadership efforts of new cadets and assisting them in any way he could. During his training, he even made a new friend that soon became another kind of brother to him. Kurt Hauke, a 20-year-old who had already achieved the rank of deputy warrant officer, had been assigned as Klink's roommate in the dormitories, and the two clicked from the beginning. They practically went everywhere with one another. Target practice, the library to study academic training, first aid training, any place one went the other was right behind him. For Klink, it made army training a bit more bearable having a friend by his side.

Rudi, now Lieutenant Schneider, had decided to join the war efforts by signing up with the German Air Force (known as the Fliegertruppe until 1916). With Schneider in a completely different branch of the military, life had been extremely lonely for Klink the first few weeks of army training. He missed his best friend dearly. Their inside jokes, his advice and encouragement, Klink had felt all alone in the world until he became close with Kurt. He still missed Schneider daily, but Kurt had filled an empty place in the cadet's life that needed to be desperately.

By the time March 1915 came, Klink had received a promotion to 2nd lieutenant, and he and Kurt, along with hundreds of other cadets and warrant officers, were pronounced ready for trench training. They were taken by bus to a military camp located out in the middle of nowhere and were led by a drill sergeant to a makeshift trench, a separate trench located about 100 yards away from the first one. The one where trained officers with the rank of captain and up would play the role of enemy soldiers and fire blanks at their trainees. The trainees would be provided with new blanks, and anyone who was 'injured' during combat would be taken back to the academy for a refresher course.

The first few weeks were miserable, but not unbearable. Klink missed his cot and having a nice warm shower at his access, but they were given food and water to last them for a few months, and the days went by quickly with faux battles. By nighttime, Klink and Kurt would fall asleep talking to each other while staring up at the stars. Come the end of April, however, trench training went from miserable to downright a nightmare from Hell. Constant rain, suffocating heat, cadets growing ill with disease or succumbing to fungal infections from the bad living conditions. Some cases were the cadet had gone to sleep the night prior fine and well, then they never woke up again the following morning.

It was July when Klink finally hit his breaking point. Food and water supply was wearing thin, some cadets were going insane from starvation, while others went psychotic from claustrophobia or some other psychological ailment. Some cases were so bad that the cadets would start lashing out and killing their own kind in response to their mental instability. Those individuals were eventually removed and taken to a nearby hospital for rest and relaxation.

Meanwhile, Klink sat in a hot and muddy trench, his stomach cramping every so often from how hungry he was. His combat uniform clinged to his sweaty body like a small child to their parents in a big shopping strip. His breathing had become shallow and labored, certain that he had contracted some sort of respiratory illness from the heat and poor living conditions. He and Kurt would share their water with each other, but sometimes they had to wait days before someone came by and gave them more. He was losing weight rapidly to the point where his hands would shake when holding up his rifle or pistol for fake combat attacks. He was sleep deprived, starving, sick, and smelled worse than a moldy sock in a boys' gymnasium locker room. He had witnessed some of his comrades, some becoming his friends, succumb to illness or mentally snap from psychological distress. It made him question how his father had been able to get through this type of torture without going insane for so many years.

It was a hot night in late July. The 'enemy' had been doing surprise attacks on the trainees off and on all day, causing some cadets to collapse from exhaustion, while others did all they could to keep themselves moving. Finally around 10:00 p.m. the 'attacks' had come to a stop, and Klink lay against the cold mud as he sighed with relief. He could finally go to sleep and drift off into a dream located anywhere but where he currently was. Maybe a nice getaway to Paris and the majestic Eiffel Tower. Perhaps a nice sunny day on a tropical beach in South America, the cerulean ocean tides crashing gently onto the sand. Or maybe relaxing on a nice little gondola ride in Venice while the driver sang 'Santa Lucia' melodically. Wherever his brain decided to take him, it would be completely fine with him.

He closed his eyes, folded his arms over his middle, and was about halfway to REM sleep, when the faint sound of someone yelling a command reached his alerted ears.

"Luftangriff! Die Alliierten sind auf uns!" (1)

Klink opened one eye to see what all the ruckus was about, but he could hardly make out the words one of his comrades were yelling, when a loud rumbling suddenly roared from above while accompanied by air raid sirens wailing in the near distance. Klink's eyes shot wide open then, and he looked up at the night sky to find fighter airplanes pretending to be Allied aircrafts. They started dropping fake grenades from the sky and onto the cadets, while the officers began to fire their rifles again.

Klink watched the others rise to their tired feet and begin firing their blanks, while the lieutenant did all he could to keep himself from losing it. He ground his jaw and clenched his fists as tight as he could, the rise of his blood pressure heating up on his face and neck. But despite him being his usual calm and collected self, tonight was the breaking point. His growing temper was finally unleashed, and he shook his head with fury.

"I can't TAKE IT ANYMORE!" He hollered, and tried to leap out of the other side of the trench.

Kurt, who was busy reloading his rifle, noticed Klink's swift movement from the corner of his eye, turned to his left, and felt his eyes bug out of his head. "Wilhelm!" The warrant officer exclaimed, and bolted for his friend. He pulled Klink back down into the trench and tried to restrain him from making another attempt at climbing out. "Wilhelm, are you out of your mind?! You get out of this trench, and they'll send you back for refreshment training. You'll have to come back out here and do this all over again!"

"Kurt, I can't take it anymore. I need to get out of here!" Klink cried. "I'm going crazy in here; how are you still sane, Kurt?!"

"Wilhelm, calm down!" Kurt barked over the gunfire. "You've gotta pull yourself together now. I know this sucks, but I won't let you go down the same rabbit hole of shame your brother did."

"Kurt, I haven't eaten in days. I haven't had a good night's sleep in months. I've seen friends and colleagues drop dead; some from the hands of our own comrades, and you want me to calm down?! I've had to pretend to kill people in order to survive this nightmare from Hell! I don't wanna fight, Kurt, I don't wanna kill anybody!"

"You think this is any easier on the rest of us? I've been by your side this whole time, I see the way your arms shake now whenever you have to fire your weapon. I want to get the hell out of here, too, but we made a promise to our country and our Kaiser to fight for Germany's welfare." Kurt's dark eyes began to soften, and he put a gentle hand on Klink's shoulder. "Wilhelm, I know you don't want anyone to die. Your heart's as big as the Atlantic, you couldn't hate another person if you tried to. We can get you transferred out of the army and into another branch of the military after this, I'll help you so you don't have to go through this in the actual field; but we've gotta get through this first in order to do so."

Klink let Kurt's words sink into his mind as the sound of gunfire and airplane engines continued to ring out into the night. His breathing was again shallow and labored, his lungs aching and burning with every breath. Klink coughed violently as his respiratory ailment struck him again at full force. He felt Kurt rub his arm for comfort and let the tears roll down his cheeks. He shook his head. "I can't do this, Kurt. How do I get through this nightmare we're in?" He croaked.

"One more month, mein Freund. One more month, and it's all over. You'll never have to fight in another trench ever again. You're strong, Wilhelm; you're stronger than any person I've ever known. You've made it this far, we can finish the rest of this race if we stick together. We Germans are stronger as one, the two of us together can fight through anything."

Klink looked at his friend and saw the determination his dear friend held in his eyes. He was thin and had dark circles under his eyes like the rest of them, but Kurt was far from giving up. And if Kurt was able to keep fighting, then he could keep fighting, too. Germans were stronger together than against one another. As long as he and Kurt stuck by each other, there was absolutely nothing they couldn't face head on. The angry and frightened spark in his blue eyes melted away, and Klink was able to give his friend a small smile.

"Danke, Kurt," he said sincerely. "I needed that talk."

Kurt smiled back at Klink, and the two gave each other a warm hug before releasing each other. The warrant officer gestured with his arm for Klink to follow him. "Now come on," he cried. "Grab your gun; let's show these officers what we're capable of!"

Klink reached for his rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded, then settled beside Kurt's side and began firing.

On August 19, 1915 Klink's worst nightmare finally came to an end, and he had even earned another promotion to 1st lieutenant. By the time he and the remaining others had returned to the academy, Klink could not take another step. He collapsed to the ground and was rushed to a nearby hospital, where he was treated for severe sleep deprivation and a bad case of bronchitis. He stayed in the hospital for about two weeks before he was cleared and able to return to combat training and academic learning.

After taking another two weeks off to regain more of his strength, he returned to Colonel Bartsch's office in the administrative building and sat down before him after giving him a proper salute and getting permission to sit.

"Can I believe my eyes?" The army colonel questioned. "Lieutenant Klink, why have you come back?"

"Well Herr Oberst, I learned a lot of things during my time in trench training. I learned what my strengths were, my weaknesses, I learned what I was mentally capable of doing and what I couldn't do. It made me realize that some things are not a great fit for me in this unit. So, if you will grant it, Colonel Bartsch, I would like a transfer." Klink explained calmly, his assertiveness much more profound than his first visit had been with the officer. If he had learned anything from trench training, it was that he needed a thicker layer of skin and a stronger backbone if he planned on surviving this world war. Yes his heart was still the soft one he had grown up having, but his exterior had toughened out in the last year, protecting his soft heart from being an easy target to confrontations and combat fighting. And if he were to serve his Germany the right way and keep honor to his family's military background, he needed said skin and backbone to do so. But if he stayed in the army, those goals of his would go straight down the drain and be replaced with something he feared almost as much as dying: going psychologically insane.

Bartsch raised an eyebrow quizzically as he stared at the now 21-year-old officer. "You mean like a unit transfer?" He asked hesitantly. He was not quite sure where his new subordinate was going with this. "Perhaps our police law enforcement program would suit you better. Less combat fighting against the enemy, mostly stationed on base as security, do night patrols aroun…"

"No, Herr Oberst..." Klink interrupted carefully, trying to be as respectful as he possibly could. "...I want a transfer to the Fliegertruppe."

"The Fliegertruppe!" Bartsch exclaimed, shooting to his feet.

"If that's alright with you, Sir," Klink said, with a nod.

"That's not a transfer; that's entering an entirely different military branch."

"I realize that, Herr Oberst. I've already spoken to Lieutenant Colonel Böhmer in the Fliegertruppe office, and he says that it can be an easy process for both military branches if both consent to the transfer. I have a good friend of mine in the Fliegertruppe already, he can catch me up on things I've missed in the academic training."

Bartsch sat there for the longest amount of time, making no sudden sounds or movement except for the occasional blinking of his dark eyes. He eventually looked down at his desk, gave a heavy sigh, then picked up some sort of document and began scribbling things on it.

Klink hesitantly stuck his neck out every now and again to try and see what the colonel was exactly signing. Was he getting his transfer? Was Bartsch sending him home for incompetence or dishonorable behavior? What would he say to his parents if it was the latter? Then he really would bring shame to his family's name. The Klinks would become the laughing stock in all of Germany with two boys getting kicked out of the military. Everything his grandfather and father had done to serve their country and keep Germany the beloved country it was would all have been for nothing.

Fear suddenly grabbing at his inner core, Klink swallowed a large lump in his throat and buried his head into his shoulders a bit to make himself appear smaller than he actually was. He watched anxiously as Bartsch signed his name at the bottom of the document, pounded a stamp on the upper right corner, then handed it over to Klink.

"Here you are, Lieutenant," he answered bitterly. "Your transfer to the Fliegertruppe. Report to Lieutenant Colonel Böhmer first thing in the morning, and he will take care of you from there. I'm sorry to see a good soldier like you leave this unit, though. I haven't seen an officer-in-training nearly as good as you in over 14 years now."

Klink smiled with gratitude, but his eyes held a small ounce of sympathy for the colonel. "Danke, Herr Oberst," he said sincerely. "It has been my honor to serve you, Sir. I hope another promising officer comes across your way soon." He rose to his feet, gave Bartsch a firm salute, then walked out of the office once given a proper dismissal.

Once the door had closed behind him, Klink looked down at his transfer approval and felt a small grin come to his face. His muscles began to relax, and for once since arriving in Potsdam one year prior, Klink finally took a breath of relief. He was free. Free of bloodshed. Free of air raids and constant gunfire. Free of poor living conditions. And most of all, he was free from trenches.

(1) Luftangriff! Die Alliierten sind auf uns - Air raid! The allies are upon us!