Aim. Shoot. Aim. Shoot. Those tedious steps that replayed in his head. They were drilled into his head, and now he was drilling them into the heads of the men under him.

"Damnit, Gefreite Weber. If this was a real attack we'd be back in Berlin with those Yanks trailing our asses! Breathe slowly! Calm!" yelled Schaefer.

He watched Weber carefully, examining the minute movements as he pulled the trigger.

Boom. Another miss.

"Feldwebel, I try and listen, and I still can't hit the target!"

"TRY AGAIN GEFREITE!"

Weber readied his weapon, slowed his breathing, and took aim.

By this time, the entire group of peers had gathered around. Silence was deafening around the squad. They all watched, intent, serious.

Boom.

No hit. No wood breaking. Nothingness.

Disappointment went around the group like a virus. Each man shaking his head and walking away, slowly.

"Feldwebel-"

"Go to the barracks Weber. Get rest."

Weber got up and saluted, then promptly ran off and headed towards the rest of the group. Weber was so small that he was easily told apart from the others, even from a distance, and he was much younger. He had dark hair and very pale complexion, with a very fragile frame and feminine face. Schaefer worried about him, not for him, but for the entire squad that needed every link in the chain to be strong.

War is for men, Not boys he thought to himself.

Schaefer looked around at his camp. The command tent was bustling with planning operations for the following days. The living area had a small campfire with all the young soldiers gathered around, sharing stories and laughing. The medical tent had one soldier in it, but not for injuries by yanks, he was just clumsy when building the trenches.

For a moment, Schaefer could have mistaken this for peace. The happiness and friendship among everyone and the easy, almost boring pace.

It was refreshing to see for the Feldwebel. Too often did all he see was death and destruction. Here, though, it was happy.

"Feldwebel! Come here!"

The voice came from the command tent, and it spoke with authority.

Schaefer began his walk, carefully stepping over mud puddles and trying to stay as clean as possible.

Inside the tent was awe inspiring. Hundreds of maps, all with pins marking important locations. In the middle of the tent was a wooden table with a detailed map of the immediate area.

An older man step forward to greet Schaefer at the tent entrance. He was dressed in full regalia, with medals dangling and his rank proudly shining. He had coarse hair on his face and he removed his cap, revealing a bald head.

"Sir! You called?" Saluted Schaefer.

"Yes, I did. No time for introductions though. Call me Muller. We have received intel from the recon unit about 10 kilometers north."

"What could possibly be going on now? Are they mounting another offensive?" Interrupted Schaefer

"Indeed," Muller said as he walked to the table.

He continued, "This is a big push from the Yanks. Tanks and infantry. I've decided that running is not an option. We hold this line, and I'm putting you in charge of the defense."

Muller pointed to a spot on the map and drew an imaginary line.

"Right there. I've requested reinforcements and they are on the way."

Schaefer stood in shock. Defending against this hard of a push with his squad and some other boys that the German recruiters managed to rile up and send here out of desperation was a complete death wish.

"Sir! I have nothing to defend with! Even if I had one bullet for every Yank on the battlefield, we still couldn't win! Did you see Weber? He didn't hit a target once. You're asking me to commit suicide. Hell, you're asking me to send my squad, my brothers, into suicide!"

Schaefer immediately thought of Weber.

He has to be 16 decided Schaefer. No more than 16.

The boy had a life ahead of him. He wasn't made for war.

Muller interrupted his thoughts, "I don't ask anything of you. I command it. The line needs to be held. If it falls, the rest of Germany falls with it. This is the final stand Schaefer. There is no where else to run. Nowhere to hide. The supplies are running low everywhere. If you can hold it here, we can still grasp victory!"

"When do I need to be ready?" Asked Schaefer, eyes towards the ground with a scowl on his face.

"Recon reports suggest 48 hours at most."

Schaefer once again was taken aback. 48 hours to dig in and set up to defend against the Yanks' army.

"Fine. I'll gather my men and March there today. I hope you know how much blood is on your hands."