The 16th Bavarian Reserve Regiment
"Everyone's gone soft, have they? Isn't that right?"
"Yes, sir!"
Tactical training. We had to crawl until we were right on the brink of physical collapse. In that state, your judgment clouds, and you can't properly scan your surroundings. It was just like war.
A situation I'd often faced in World War I. And the instructor was waiting for exactly that moment.
He grabbed one of the cadets panting nearby and pointed to a hill in the distance.
"Enemy positions on that hill. How would you take it?"
"..."
"Why no answer?!"
"S-sorry, sir."
Out of nowhere, he asks how to seize that hill. After rolling around like maniacs, it's impossible to give a coherent response to such a random question.
This time, the instructor stood in front of Herz, who was catching his breath, and casually kicked his ankle.
"Ugh..."
"Herz. How would you take that hill?"
"W-walk right up and take it, sir."
"At least you answered. But no details. You're training to be officers. Even exhausted and battered, if you give your men an order like that, it'd be the worst of the worst. No need to explain how a incompetent commander is more dangerous than a competent enemy, right?"
As he said that, he approached me, tapped my shoulder, and asked,
"Cadet Lucas. How would you take that hill?"
The moment I heard the question, I quickly scanned the area. Towed guns sat in one corner for artillery practice, and there was a stable for military horses on the other side. The Grosserichsfeld Cadet Training Corps barracks housed facilities and armaments for every branch of the army.
And I focused on the artillery.
"With artillery bombardment, sir. Advancing without smashing their machine-gun nests would rack up casualties. Even if we took the hill, we'd be vulnerable to counterattack."
"More detail! Is that all you've got, Lucas!?"
"I'll adjust fire to match our advance speed. Sequential barrages can support the infantry effectively. Indirect fire over the back slope, direct fire on the front to shatter their lines as we creep forward."
Using artillery in sync with infantry speed—a tactic still nascent, but one that would later be known as creeping barrage.
The instructor nodded, satisfied.
"Good enough. Solid answer, Lucas. No matter how winded or filthy you are, never lose your cool. Class dismissed."
1909. At just 19, I'd completed every course at the Grosserichsfeld Cadet Training Corps and been commissioned as a second lieutenant.
Assigned to the 2nd Guard Infantry Regiment. Time to clear out my dorm at the training corps, where I'd grown oddly attached.
"Lucas, where'd they send you?"
"New platoon leader, 2nd Guard Infantry. You, Herz?"
"East. New platoon leader, 4th Saxon Infantry..."
"We're splitting up, then."
"Too bad. But let's meet again in Berlin. I'll write when I arrive."
Herz packed up and left. And that was probably the last I'd see of him. He'd die on the Eastern Front.
Me? I'd suffer every hell in the Western Front trenches. Germany's geopolitical curse tearing us apart.
"Hoo... This is just the start. No room for mistakes."
I closed my eyes briefly, replaying past memories.
Artillery drives you mad. During World War I, I thought I was losing it for real. Couldn't sleep, helpless against the barrage—that feeling of utter powerlessness.
Screams didn't faze me anymore. Sometimes they even sounded beautiful, like a musical. Quiet and tame compared to the thunder of shells, anyway.
If only the shells would stop. But they never did.
Then came the interwar period. Adolf Hitler seized power, and I climbed ranks in the 100,000-man German army, rising fast to general.
Sickle Cut. Planned it with Manstein; unlike history, we pursued and annihilated the British main force at Dunkirk. The thrill was indescribable—what gamers call a "yatzhee."
But hopes of quick British surrender crumbled. Churchill took over as in history, war stalemated, and Hitler gambled on invading the Soviets.
Disaster. No time to react. The dominoes fell like wildfire, devouring Germany.
"..."
I opened my eyes. This time would be different.
"I'll never fall into that hell again."
I scanned the peaceful barracks dorm, then turned away without hesitation. Even the sentimentality gone.
"You serious, lieutenant? You really want to go to this backwater?"
"My calling is the front lines, sir. I insist. City life's glamour isn't for me."
"If you're set on suffering, I won't stop you. Fine. I'll make it happen."
First and second loops, same thing: Served as 2nd Guard Infantry second lieutenant until war broke. Died before lieutenant in the first; second time, promoted mid-war for safer fights, survived to captain by end—but still tied to the 2nd Guards.
This time had to change. Goal: Replace Hitler. He couldn't live.
I knew how dangerous he was, his World War I routine. Joined Bavarian army as dispatch runner. Perfect time to eliminate him.
I'll kill Hitler and become Fuhrer.
Soon after commissioning, I submitted a transfer request. Schmoozed and bribed connections. Finally reassigned to the 16th Bavarian Reserve Regiment.
"Thank you, sir."
"Do well out there."
He clapped my shoulder. Left Berlin's 2nd Guard HQ for Bavaria.
Mother cried; Father smiled.
"I'm proud of you, Lucas. Pride of the family."
"Not yet."
Yeah. Not yet. For me, dreaming of Fuhrership, a mere commission was nothing. But glory was coming soon.
June 1910. Arrived in Bavaria. Unloaded gear, entered my new barracks.
Elite second lieutenant volunteering from 2nd Guards. Not many welcomed me. Troops sneered, "New punk," averting eyes. No warm reception.
But the battalion commander did.
Short on admin? Free labor volunteered? Had to welcome that.
"Welcome, Second Lieutenant Lucas von Falkenrain."
"An honor, sir."
"Heard you left 2nd Guards mid-service for the front lines in our Bavarian army?"
"Yes, sir."
"Eaten?"
"Not yet."
"How long since commissioning?"
"One year."
"Hm. Join me for a meal."
Dragged to dinner right away. Not out eating—this Junker invited noble to noble at his estate.
At his mansion, we greeted again.
"Falkenrain family. I know it well. Our ancestors owed you big. No, not war—real debts."
"Forgive my ignorance, sir. I don't know our history well. What happened?"
"Old families, both. Allies in lean times. Knight era, lances and horses—no need to dwell."
"News to me."
"Ah, this sausage is divine. Try it. Bavaria's pride."
Not fancy—just German lunch with wine. Sliced sausage, sipped, chatted.
Then business: "Lucas von Falkenrain. 16th Reserves finishing reinforcements soon, prepping for war. Short on new company commanders. One year in? Lieutenant promotion's fair."
"Sir?"
"You'll take 7th Artillery Company."
"I'm still a second lieutenant. Fresh here—how can I command without experience?"
"Listen. You've done plenty. Quitting Guards? You're my man. Accept. Humility's good, but drop it sometimes. I'll recommend you. Form the new artillery company. You can handle it?"
Irresistible. Artillery? God of the battlefield.
Not divinity—but safer in coming World War I.
Not foolproof: Counter-battery fire, air threats if we lose skies. Still beats trench turnips caked in mud.
Shameless, but I couldn't refuse. Shook my commander's hand.