Feedback Wanted: Rough Draft First Chapter, Alternate WWI
I’m working on the first chapter of a historical fiction novel set in an alternate WWI where the Fleischman Plan succeeds, so trench warfare isn’t a thing and the front moves quickly.
The chapter follows Klaus Stahl, a young draftee adjusting to barracks life and receiving his draft notice. It’s a rough draft, so punctuation, spelling, and sentence structure are messy—please focus on story flow, pacing, character voice, and world-building rather than grammar. all criticism is welcome this is my first time trying something like this so it's probably kinda shit but I figured I'd get some outside opinions it's just over 2000 words
“get up you useless swine”!! Klaus snapped awake like a wire under tension as Corporal Meyer's voice bounced around the barracks room as if it was coming from the very walls itself.
Slowly his stiff body barely obeyed as he hurried to stand at attention, the springs of his rock hard bed letting out an agonizing screech as he lifted his weight. The overwhelming stench of sweat and soiled clothes filled his nose “are we men or pigs in a sty” klaus mused. 50 men snapped to attention before they'd even rubbed the sleep from their eyes.
Klaus had been in Dusseldorf for 6 weeks. Under normal circumstances he would've enjoyed it, he'd always wanted to travel to Dusseldorf to see the beauty of the rhine. It's blue-hue shimmering in the summer sun as storks and mallards took flight above the morning dew.
But these were anything but normal circumstances. Just 6 weeks ago he had just got home from a long night at the shop, the sulphurous smell of diesel clinging to his oil stained clothes. To think he turned down his chance for higher education for the life of a grease monkey. And yet he couldn't be happier with his choice, klaus lived for the hum and buzz of the machines. Getting up long before the sun for his walk to work every step like a familiar friend on a well trodden path.5 years now he had worked and still the daily rhythm was all he lived for . The grinding of a file against a buhr, the crackle and flash from the new welding machine fixing a plow were all well accustomed sights.
He shut down the lights in the shop as he made his way to the door. Once again he was the last one to leave, but he wouldn't trade his late evening walks through geising, the earthy smell of roasted barley and the pungent smell of brewing hops drifting through the air in an intoxicating malaise.
The heavy and rhythmic beat of hammers coming from the krauss-maffei building just down the way where his father used to work. The soft and familiar scuff of his boots across the smooth cobbles remind him of walks with his father when he was a boy, as they sat on the banks of the Isar watching the Flöber skim weightless across those glacial blue waters as the last beams of sunlight glinted on the waters surface.
Tonight as he looked at the river he saw men so small at this distance they looked like scurrying ants hastily framing the duetsches on its solitary island. But as he got closer to his cottage on the outskirts of town and away from the bustle of the city he came into the country where his heart truly resided, the deep earthy smell of freshly tilled dirt, the whicker of a horse in a stall or the squealing of a fresh litter of piglets.
He passed Agnes’ house who sold him honey and always threw in a little extra and Fritz’ who was always ready to lend a helping hand. And yet he had a deep feeling of foreboding, he wasn't sure why but the tension in the air felt palpable like you could cut it with a knife. At first he thought it was just his imagination, “was that a truck? He asked himself,Surely not at this hour” but no there it was again he was sure it was a truck, and he knew it couldn't be anything good.
And yet nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when he got home. 2 men standing like grim omens, outside of his small cottage in the grey fatigues and well polished look that could only mean they were military. One was old, the lines in his face etched like a rock weathered by the tides. “Too old for the military” was his first thought, but he didn't stop to think what that might mean until much later. The other a wisp of a boy, maybe 18 if he was a day the tiny whiskers the only inkling of facial hair. The words they spoke next would stick with him the rest of his life. “ Report to the recruitment office in 24 hours or be hanged for a traitor” said the older man in a voice gruff as gravel. And with little more than a word they snapped around and left Klaus standing there shaking like a leaf. The smooth feeling of the envelope, still warm from the soldier's hand is the only thing grounding him to where he stood.
He fumbled with the latch, his grease-stained fingers slipping twice before the heavy oak door swung inward. The cottage, usually his sanctuary of cedar-smoke and quiet, felt like a cage. Klaus didn't look for a letter opener; he grabbed a paring knife from the kitchen block, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches that whistled in his throat.
He caught his reflection in the darkened window—wide eyes, a smear of black soot across a pale forehead—and for a second, he didn't recognize the man staring back. With a jagged motion, he sliced the top of the envelope. The paper was thick, embossed with the Imperial Eagle that seemed to glare at him.
There it was. Not a request, but a command. The ink was a deep, merciless black. Klaus Stahl. Seeing his name in that rigid, military script made the room tilt. It wasn't just a letter; it was an obituary for the life he had built.
His mind snapped back to the present as he raised his arm in a clumsy salute, thankful that corporal meyer didn't notice his slugged and feeble attempt. There was one thing you learned quickly, under corporal meyer there was no room for laziness. Franz learned that lesson all too quickly when he spent a day in the stocks for not making his bed. Peter flashed Klaus a smirk that said “I saw that” as he quickly snapped his head back around.
They were the only barracks who had to salute first thing everyone else just stood at attention. But that isn't good enough for corporal meyer. Nothing is.
Meyer steps into the room and slams the door behind him with gusto the very sight of him is menacing 6’3 with a grizzled look like the veteran of a hundred battles,he was the kind of man whose presence commanded respect.
The heel plates on his Marschstiefel glinting In the morning light coming in through the window the tap,tap of the hobnail hitting the hardwood floor as he walked with deadly precision, and cat like determination like he was ready to go at a moments notice, doing his morning rounds looking for anything out of line, a loose button or a smudge on the bedspread would mean a day of hard drilling.
The scent of stale tobacco,stale sweat and mildew wafted past him as he made his way inch by inch, bed by bed to Franz. The button in his collar was missing a thread. I watched as Meyer got an inch from his face And screamed pulled the thread, the snap as it broke like a gunshot on a quiet day. I retreated into my head trying to focus on whether pressurized or pneumatic tires were better for the bikes “ Pneumatics were smoother, but a single Belgian thorn could end a march. Solid rubber was reliable, but it vibrated through a man’s teeth until his jaw ached”. He fixated on the alder 3 speeds nearly in their rack at the end of the room. It hurt him to see how badly they were taken care of but Meyer allowed no maintenance unless necessary. So they slogged on with chains caked with cemented grease and fenders speckled with rust powerless to fix it. As he sat there he thought of how he'd maintain them if he was in charge, to drown out the booming noise as Meyer yelled Abt destroying government property and threatened to hang him by his ankles, or have him do a ten mile uphill ruck. Meyers breath frosting in the chill morning air.franz stood there shaking like a bicycle tire right before the chain popped off. It felt like hours but finally klaus heard the words he had been dreading. It was time to drill on the bicycles.
He moved to his bicycle as quick as he could noticing the loose chain and hoping he could fix it quickly without meyer seeing. But no luck, he was watching them like a hawk and made sure to remind them as always that he valued those bikes more than their lives.
50 men wheeling bikes through a narrow doorway is a disaster by the end we all have bruised shins from pedals and the door frame lost a little more paint.
The sky was overcast and grey, the ground frozen solid by any early frost that all to soon would thaw and turn into the greedy black mud that normally surrounded them, a lair of frost was on the grass twinkling like thousands of little diamonds, a small glimmer in the darkness As he wheeled his bike into the yard behind the rest he couldn't help but cringe as chains scraped and groaned for need of oil and tires squeaked with loose and broken spokes, but there was nothing he could do. Once he got here he was no longer human, just another cog in the machine.
The shrill officers whistle that dictates their movement sounds as they mount their bicycles in the required procedure left foot on the rear peg, hop-hop-swing the leg over. From an outside view it would have looked humourous 50 men trying to perform such an intricate maneuver in stiff woolen great coats, but it was worth your life to have meyer catch you doing it any other way. The clatter as 50 kickstands scraped against gravel and the squeal of neglected pedals as we made our slow journey across camp to the armory. At first the hustle and bustle of the military camp was exciting, the sound of trucks starting up, men leading horses and the sound of distant gun shots from the firing range, but now they were nothing but a backdrop to our misery. Meyer signalled the 2 whistle,toots that signalled them to stop as they signed out their rifles. Every gun and bullet was meticulously accounted for, every piece of the weapon had its own unique serial number which made any kind of swaps or repairs a deadly risk. As soon as the last man had his mauser the whistle sounded once more and it was back to our usual trek. The sling of his mauser digging into his shoulder with a cold but only made worse by the chill in the air. The sound of 100 tires crunching on the rough gravel of the path and the mausers bouncing off mudguards making metallic clangs like some kind of discordant orchestra. If it weren't for the circumstances this would be a beautiful trip the sun finally poking out from the clouds and shining through the branches of beech and oak splitting into rays of sunshine. In the fair distance the rhine was glinting in the sun in all her glory. The lifeblood of a people flowing ever constant. It was one of the few things Klaus clung onto, one of the few things that had remained constant in the chaos of the last 6 weeks.
A few hours after the drill started klaus noticed hans trying to get his attention. Talking during drill was strictly forbidden but they had become quick friends from the beginning when they met in the recruitment hall. And peter looking like a stick in his uniform. As they began up a steep hill klaus moved closer to hand knowing it was important, but not realizing it would change his life forever.
Hans leans in his face red with effort from the exertion of pedaling his rusty bike.
“Klaus,” Hans hissed, the word barely audible over the clatter of the mudguards. “Did you hear? The 1st and 2nd companies... they moved out at midnight. Rail cars. Heading West.”
Klaus doesn't answer. He can't. But he looks at the Rhine, then at the grease on his hands, and realizes the "drilling" is over. The "War" is starting.