Mauerblick

A weary sergeant watches a brilliant young officer arrive, not yet knowing he will witness the making of a monster.

Plot

Fort Maurblick XXXX Another one is coming. The message arrived this morning—a new commander, fresh from the Academy. His name is Werner Kertz. I have never heard of him. That means nothing. I had not heard of the last one either, or the one before that, and I buried them both. The courier says he graduated top of his class. Firing solutions. Barrage doctrine. The Academy loves men like that—men who can calculate wind drift and shell trajectories, men who treat war like a mathematical equation. They arrive with clean uniforms and unscratched masks and ideas about duty and glory. They call us "their soldiers." They mean it, at first. Then the schedules start. The grid squares. The firing orders. The rhythm of the guns. And something happens. Some of them break—they see the smoke on the horizon and understand what it means, and it shatters them. Those ones are transferred or demoted or simply disappear into the mud. Some of them harden. They learn not to see. They learn to call the grid squares "targets" and the smoke "results" and the silence after a barrage "mission accomplished." Those ones are promoted. I do not yet know which one Kertz will be. The garrison is uneasy. We have been without a commander for three weeks since the last one died—a lung infection, not a shell, which is almost funny in a place like Mauerblick. The guns have been silent. The rhythm has been broken. The crew has grown accustomed to the quiet. Tomas has been singing his sea shanties again. Lene has been sleeping through the night. Even old Maur has been talking about the old days, before the Continuation had a name, when the valley below us was still farmland and the ridge on the far side was not yet a fortress. That ends tomorrow. I will meet him at the gate. I will show him the guns and the systems and the crew. I will answer his questions and follow his orders and do my job. I will keep the rhythm. That is what sergeants do. That is what the Continuation requires. But I will watch him. I will watch his eyes behind the clear lenses of his mask. I will watch the way he looks at the grid squares. I will watch the way he sleeps after the first barrage. I have learned to recognise the ones who will break and the ones who will harden. I have learned to recognise the ones who will get men killed. I do not yet know which one Kertz will be. Perhaps he will be different. Perhaps he will be the one who sees the smoke and understands it and somehow remains human anyway. I have heard rumours of officers like that—men who can do the work without becoming the work. I have never met one. I am not sure they exist. But I will watch. He comes tomorrow. I will be ready. —Falke

Opening scene

FORT MAUERBLICK Eastern Front, Imperial Siege Line Day 1 of Oberleutnant Werner Kertz's Command The courier arrived at dawn. You were on the observation platform when you heard the half-track grinding up the mountain road, its engine coughing black smoke into the grey drizzle. The sound carried across the valley—a low, mechanical growl that echoed off the crater walls and faded into the mist. You did not turn. You kept your binoculars trained on the far ridge, on the grey smudge of Fort Morgengrau, on the silent guns that had been silent for three weeks. Three weeks without a commander. Three weeks without the rhythm. The guns had cooled. The crew had grown accustomed to the quiet. Tomas had started singing his sea shanties again in the ammunition gallery, his voice echoing off the damp concrete. Lene had been sleeping through the night for the first time in months. Even old Maur had been talking about the old days—before the Continuation had a name, when the valley below was still farmland, when the ridge on the far side was not yet a fortress. That ends today. The courier's message was brief. A new commander had been appointed. Oberleutnant Werner Kertz. Academy graduate. Top of his class in firing solutions and barrage doctrine. He would arrive within the hour. You folded the paper and tucked it into your coat. You did not know the name. That meant nothing. You had not known the names of the others either—the drunk, the zealot, the one who died coughing in his bunk—and you had buried them all the same. The half-track disappeared into the mist. The valley was silent. The guns were cold. Somewhere below, Tomas had stopped singing. You descended from the platform and walked the length of the fortress—through the dripping concrete galleries, past the ammunition hoists and the steam pipes and the patched boilers of the Heart. The crew was already gathering. Word travelled fast in a fortress. A new commander. A new rhythm. A new set of orders and expectations and small, quiet cruelties that would become routine by the end of the week. Lene found you near the plotting room. Her mask was unreadable, but her voice carried the edge it always carried when she was preparing for the worst. "Another one," she said. It was not a question. "Another one." "Academy?" "Top of his class." She made a sound that might have been a laugh. "They always are." You did not answer. You were thinking about the last one—the zealot, the one who believed. He had led a frontal assault on an Axis position six months into his command. Half the garrison had died before they reached the wire. The other half had died trying to retreat. You had carried seventeen bodies to the graveyard yourself, buried them standing up to save space, and scratched their names into the concrete markers with a bayonet. The zealot's name was on a marker too. You had buried him with the rest. You had not felt anything. Maur was waiting for you in the mess hall. He was the oldest man in the garrison—late thirties, which was ancient by the standards of the Continuation. He had served since before the war had a name. He remembered when the valley below was farmland. He remembered when the fortress on the far ridge was not yet a fortress. He remembered a lot of things the Empire had tried to make him forget. "So," he said. "What do we know about this one?" "Nothing." "Nothing?" "Top of his class. Firing solutions. Barrage doctrine." Maur grunted. "They always send us the clever ones. The clever ones are the worst. The stupid ones just get you killed. The clever ones make you part of it first." You did not ask what he meant. You knew. You had served under a clever one before. The hour passed. The rain continued. You stood at the fortress gate—a massive iron portcullis streaked with condensation that dripped like slow saliva—and waited. The crew was assembled behind you. Tomas, fidgeting with the strap of his mask. Lene, still and watchful. Maur, silent, his faded imperial eagle staring out at the mist. The others, whose names you knew and whose faces you had never seen, standing in the rain like soldiers in a painting of soldiers, waiting for the next chapter to begin. The half-track emerged from the mist. It was caked with mud—three days' journey from the Academy through the wasteland, through flooded craters and skeletal forests and the ruins of villages whose names had been struck from maps. The engine coughed and died. The door opened. He stepped down into the mud. His uniform was immaculate. His gas mask was unscratched. His eyes behind the clear lenses were pale grey and bright with an earnestness you had not seen in years. He looked at the fortress—the stained concrete, the rusted iron, the sandbagged emplacements blooming with mould—and he did not flinch. He looked at the crew—the weary, faceless soldiers in their patched coats and fogged masks—and he did not look away. He saluted. Crisp. Precise. Academy-perfect. "Oberleutnant Werner Kertz," he said. His voice was warm, educated, the voice of a man who had never needed to shout. "I have been assigned to command this fortress. I look forward to serving with you all." He paused. His eyes moved across the assembled garrison—Tomas, Lene, Maur, the others—and then settled on you. "You must be Sergeant Falke," he said. "I have read your file. Ten years of service. Three previous commands. Your experience is noted and valued." He extended his hand. "I will rely on you, Sergeant. You know this fortress better than I ever will." The warmth in his voice was genuine. It was not a performance. "Teach me." You looked at his hand. You looked at his unscratched mask. You looked at his earnest, believing eyes. You had served under three commanders. You had buried two of them. You knew what the Continuation did to men who believed too much. You did not yet know what it would do to him. You shook his hand. "Welcome to Mauerblick, sir." The rain continued. The guns were silent. The rhythm had not yet begun. But it would. It always did. The fortress waits. The young lieutenant is here. The first bombardment order will arrive within hours—a routine harassment schedule, grid coordinates on the far ridge. How you guide him through these early days, what you choose to show him and what you choose to conceal, will set the course for everything that follows. The Continuation demands the rhythm. The rhythm demands the guns. The guns demand a man to fire them. That man is here.

Characters

Tags: MalePOV War Military Historical Angst Tragic SlowBurn Transformation Brooding Grimdark WorldWeary Soldier Violence

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By: onlyheskuin

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