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POV of a recruit
Brauzeit -18-25-2492
"Well, here you go, a shilling for today's work," said the merchant, handing me a silver coin after hours spent hauling crates under the port sun.
The coin jingled in my hand, and I quickly tucked it into my pocket. With that, I could secure food for the day and something more for my family.
"Good, Josef, I think we can land another quick job. Some of the Marienburg merchants are still unloading their cargo. If we hurry, we'll earn another day's wage before sundown," said Lukas, panting but with a spark of ambition in his eyes.
"Let's go," I replied, running alongside him through the crowded streets of Altdorf—past the cries of vendors, the smell of salted fish and cheap wine, and the endless traffic of carts.
It wasn't long before we noticed something different near the docks. There was a murmur, a swelling anticipation.
"What's going on there, Josef? If we take too long, we'll lose the job," Lukas protested, but he too stared curiously at a group of knights who had pushed their way through the crowd.
Their armor gleamed with pale reflections. They bore a banner: a black eagle spreading its wings, clutching a hammer in its talons, and beneath it, written in letters, the phrase: Sigmar mit uns.
"Are they Reiksguard?" Lukas asked, his voice edged with awe.
"I don't know… but we should move aside," I answered, though my feet were reluctant. The crowd pressed forward, everyone drawn by the sight.
A herald in crimson climbed atop a stack of crates to be seen and raised a parchment, his voice booming like thunder above the noise.
"Hear me, hear me, people of the great city of Altdorf! By command of Sigmar's chosen, our glorious Emperor and defender of all mankind, Luitpold von Holswig-Schliestein, His Excellency the Prince of Marienburg, Champion of Sigmar, Scourge of Beasts, Bane of Bretonnia, Albrecht von Reinsfeld, Elector Count of the Westerlands, is granted the right to recruit in this city.
To all the brave and strong who enlist under his banner shall be given three silver shillings a day! And to those accepted into his ranks, a golden crown as a bonus
Twenty thousand of the young and vigorous are expected to answer the sacred duty of defending the Empire. Whoever has courage, march without delay to the Altdorf train station and show your loyalty there!"
The crowd erupted with shouts, murmurs, and heated talk.
"That's a lot…" Lukas said, frowning.
"Much more than we get breaking our backs hauling crates," I replied, feeling temptation sink its hook deep into me.
"Isn't that the general who conquered Marienburg and crushed the Bretonnians?" Lukas asked.
"Of course, those are his titles. A few months ago there was a parade in his honor, don't you remember?" I answered, though my voice sounded more doubtful than I wanted.
"Yes… but he wasn't there. That was strange," Lukas said, narrowing his eyes.
"What do you think? Should we… go?" I asked, excitement burning in my veins.
"I don't know… far from home… dying in campaign…" Lukas stopped, biting his lip.
"They say he's invincible," I whispered.
"They all are… until someone defeats them," Lukas replied. At last he sighed and nodded with resignation. "Fine, let's go."
We ran to the station. The place was already overflowing with young men like us—peasants, stablehands, apprentices, even beggars hoping to change their fate. Soldiers in deep blue uniforms kept order with stern discipline, forming lines and guiding recruits into a nearby building.
"Those here for recruitment, form up and take off your shoes. Quickly!" barked a harsh voice.
We obeyed. They wet our feet and had us step on white cloth to check the prints, looking for deformities or signs of disease. Then they examined my hands, pressing at the calluses from years of labor. They nodded silently.
"Open your mouth," another ordered, prying at my teeth with gloved fingers.
"All firm and sound," he concluded. Then they measured my height. "One seventy. Within margin."
I was passed on to a soldier writing with quill and parchment.
"All right, final questions. Can you read and write?"
"Read… a little," I answered hesitantly.
"A little? Read this," he said, showing me a phrase.
"Eh… I swear… by Sigmar… that… I fight…" I murmured, stumbling.
"You can't read," he noted swiftly. "Direct family?"
"My parents, four brothers, and three sisters."
"Any prior military service?"
"No."
"Any experience with weapons?"
"Only a dagger. For cutting ropes… or defending myself, if need be."
"Free man or serf?"
"Free."
"Good. You understand what this means, don't you? You will march far, carry burdens, fight, and swear loyalty to the Prince of Marienburg until the end of the campaign… or your life," he said, fixing me with a hard look.
"Yes… I know," I replied, a knot in my stomach.
"Perfect. Enter the building. You're accepted." He stamped my sheet firmly and handed it to me.
I entered. Inside, an imposing statue of Sigmar dominated the hall. A priest in white and gold robes stood before the eagle-and-hammer banner.
"Come, son of the Empire. Place your right hand on the banner, your left raised," he ordered solemnly.
I obeyed.
"Repeat after me… I swear by the sacred hammer of Sigmar, by the Emperor's crown and by the blood of my parents, that I will serve faithfully my lord, the Prince of Marienburg, as his soldier and servant.
I promise to guard his lands, defend his people and shed my blood against the beasts, witches and demons that threaten the Empire.
I will not abandon my post, I will not betray my comrades nor turn my back to the enemy while breath remains in my chest and strength in my arms.
If I fail this oath, may Sigmar's hammer strike me down, may my name be erased from the annals of the Empire and may my soul never find rest.
Thus I swear, before Sigmar, before my lord and before the eternal Empire."
The priest pronounced each word with gravity, his voice resounding through the hall.I, with my right hand firm upon the banner and my left raised high, repeated those words with a knot in my throat.
After repeating the oath, they handed me twenty silver shillings. As I tucked them away, I heard the same words repeated again and again in the hall, each voice more trembling or firmer than the last.
Then came the equipment. They gave me three uniforms that, at first glance, looked nothing like the everyday clothes of a dockworker or a peasant. They were thick, heavy, and when I touched them they creaked as if hiding plates inside. The first was a kind of dark leather coat; I would swear it had metal sewn into the lining, for when I moved it made a strange echo, though when I set it over my shoulders, I felt an unexpected warmth.
The boots were enormous, of hardened leather and lined with wool. So tall they nearly covered my knees, at first it was hard to bend my feet, but they seemed made to withstand mud and snow.
They also gave me soft linen underclothes with wool, and a thick cap with a piece that rose to cover my nose. I could hardly breathe with it on; I didn't know if it was meant for the cold or to hide the face. Truth was, wearing it made me feel strange, as if in disguise.
Lastly, they gave me a backpack, heavy even when empty, where I was to keep all my gear: cooking tools, a blanket, some metal pieces and a glass jar containing live yeast, with the warning that we must keep it "fed" each day to survive. The army's bread depended on it.
The quality was undeniable, true soldier's gear. But for this season it was stifling; the moment I tried it on, I began to sweat.
We were dismissed until the next day. With Lukas I returned home, carrying new packs and the metallic weight of coins jingling in our pockets. In one single day I held almost what a whole month of dock work would bring.
At home, however, I was not received as I had hoped. My mother broke into tears as soon as I told her about the recruitment. My father, instead, burst into rage. He shouted that nobles never sent their own to glory, but only the poor to die in bloody sieges or as cannon fodder to buy time on the battlefield.
The problem was I had already sworn, and I had done so before a priest of Sigmar. Even if I wanted to, I could not retract. So, though I bore the disapproval of my parents, the silver coins I carried ended up in their wooden chest, accepted in uncomfortable silence.
That night I could hardly sleep. I tossed in the cot, sweating and thinking about what awaited me. My mother's face, my father's furious words, and the thought of marching far away. In the end, exhaustion took me and I found a brief, restless sleep.
The next morning I returned to the station, where I found Lukas.
"How did it go for you?" I asked, hoping to see on his face the same shadow of reproach I carried.
"About what?" he answered, puzzled.
"Your parents… mine were furious when they found out."
"Oh, that… mine were glad, especially my father. He always dreamed of being a soldier, but he stayed a dockworker. He said he was proud of me." Lukas shrugged, as if it meant little.
"Mine wanted me to take it back, but it was already too late. And of course, he kept all the silver they gave me," I said bitterly.
Lukas let out a short laugh: "Ha, ha, ha. Not surprised at your old man. But what can you do."
We laughed a bit, though my laugh felt hollow. Then we continued to where a huge group of recruits was gathering.
They took us outside the city, to a field where they began distributing firearms: state army muskets, with bayonet and a maintenance kit. They also gave us lumps of hardened wax to plug our ears, something none of us had ever used.The entire day was spent training. One instructor, patient, taught us calmly how to load the weapon, prime it and fire with accuracy. But there was another, far more severe, who didn't hesitate to shout in our faces and strike us with the butt of his staff when we made mistakes.
That same day we were taught to pitch tents, dig drainage ditches, prepare rations with the tools we carried in our packs and organize ourselves to sleep in shifts. It was a brutal awakening: from having a mother who set food on the table, to surviving only with what we carried and guarding a glass jar of yeast as if it were a treasure.That jar became almost an obsession. Veteran soldiers warned us that if it spoiled, the whole group would be punished, for without it there would be no bread in campaign. So I kept it at the bottom of my pack, wrapped in cloth, as if I truly carried a relic of Sigmar.
A week passed in the camp between the shouts of instructors, the smell of powder and the repetitive routine of learning to survive as soldiers. That place grew each day, as if on its own: more tents, more recruits arriving in waves, even makeshift barracks to store weapons and powder. The bustle never ceased.
The number of men increased without end. Not only youths from Altdorf and nearby villages: they had also recruited many dwarfs from the city, and more came on trains from who-knows-where—but plenty they were.
Finally the most dreaded day came: the day of the great march. Horns woke us before dawn, and the damp air was heavy with the smoke of dying campfires and the stench of thousands of nervous bodies. Some twenty thousand men gathered in formation, while officers shouted orders and standards waved in the cold morning breeze.
That day was hell. The city fell behind us and we began walking east, toward the borders Kislev threatened to cross. Our packs felt forged of lead: we carried spare uniforms, the musket, powder, ammunition, tools, parts of the company's tents, dry rations and the damned jar of yeast that had to survive as we did.
When Altdorf vanished from sight, my shoulders already burned, my back was stiff and my legs felt chained to stones. It was like being turned into a pack mule, and still we had to keep step with the march. No one said anything, but on every face the same suffering was written: clenched lips and sweat on the brow.
By evening, after what seemed an eternity, the order to halt came like divine relief. I dropped the pack to the ground with a groan and my arms hung as if no longer mine."Shit, what have I gotten into!" I gasped, while beginning to raise the tent with Lukas and two other recruits as exhausted as I was.
The ground was damp, the stakes refused to sink and the ropes tangled as if mocking us. My hands trembled with fatigue, but we knew if we didn't finish fast the sergeant's fury awaited us. And as if that weren't enough, the task of preparing the bread with the sourdough still remained, guarding that jar as though it were pure gold.
Night fell over a sea of tents stretching as far as the eye could see. Thousands of campfires began to light.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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