++ Armour of the soul is stronger than any armour you can wear ++
The mishmash convoy of trucks and people carriers was nearly eight kilometres long. Each one carried up to forty new recruits and was spaced a precise fifty metres from the other. Six thousand four hundred men and women swayed as the vehicles jounced their way along quiet back roads. Outriders roared ahead, stopping any oncoming traffic whilst others protected the rear of the convoy, only allowing traffic to pass at designated points. Even then if any vehicle tried to pull in to one of the fifty metre gaps the vehicle in front would slow whilst the the one behind would increase its speed. The interloper would be squeezed very quickly out of the gap or face being crushed between the two. The trouble for the driver wouldn't stop there as Civitas Enforcers would detain them for a discussion as to why 'you felt the need to impede the progress of our glorious Imperial Guard'.
After five hours of sitting on the mover, they were more than ready to throttle some of the younger conscripts. Rounds of ‘The Emperor Protects’ , ‘I know a song that will get on your nerves’ and ‘There once was an Ork called Barbeara’ had been sung time after time. There was no settling them. One was even starting to assert himself as something of a leader amongst them. Silus Baron was large for his age, topping six foot and full of muscle. The only person he seemed to respect was the PDF trooper nursemaiding them. Anyone else who tried to get the kids to quiet down was told to ‘fug off kark head’.
Thankfully, as the day slowly blended into night the recruits drifted off into sleep. Those couldn't join the sleepers chatted quietly, passing around picts of the families that they had only just left. The families that they had only just lost. Bravado was not something found amongst the older men. Older was a somewhat harsh term. Singeorge was only thirty-six but for some reason the first draft had managed to pull in a lot of the sixteen to twenty-year old. Singeorge realised that this was probably a deliberate attempt to ensure that not only was the draft fielding the fittest recruits it could get, but would also sprinkle more mature-minded and older recruits to act as anchor points. This was not something that appealed to him, although he recognised the cold logic.
Finally the convoy started to draw to a halt. Those recruits that were awake leaned forward or craned their heads around to look through the windows. Some nudged their colleagues awake. Up ahead was the phosphorous-yellow glow of a massive camp site. Exhaust fumes drifted across the scene as they were belched from the older vehicles in the convoy, hiding the view from eager eyes.
The mover stopped suddenly and the doors were yanked open. ‘Everybody up! Quickly now! Get up. Wake that fat slit up now!’ The PDF trooper moved down the aisle, slapping those still slumbering across the face, jolting them into panicked awareness.
The recruits shambled into the aisle and started disembarking. There was no pausing for people to get their luggage down from the overhead racks as they had no luggage. The only thing that they had been allowed to bring with them was the clothes on their backs.
With no little confusion they were assembled into something resembling ranks and then marched to a row of hastily assembled tents. The PDF trooper then counted ten of them into each tent. ‘These are your squad mates for training. Say hello, but don’t get too personal or kissy-kissy. Get your heads down as you’re going to be up at oh-six-hundred tomorrow for indoctrination and processing. Good night ladies.’
They looked around at the tent and wearily climbed onto the cots. Within minutes they were asleep.
+ + + + +
Klaxxons, when set off within one’s close vicinity can set one’s heart racing, especially if one is not aware of them being anywhere near. This was the case for Singeorge and his friends. Comatose, they went from deep slumber to panicked awareness in the space of seconds.
‘Up on your feet! Line up in two ranks of five outside your tent. MOVE IT!’ The PDF trooper retracted his head from the door slit and moved on to the next tent, blarting the klaxon as he did so.
‘Fugging hell! He scared the living kak out of me!’ Singeorge’s heart felt like it was going to stop any minute. Surely it couldn’t race that fast for much longer? ‘Better do what he says, we don’t want a bollocking on our first bloody day!’ Singeorge hopped around on one foot whilst struggling into a boot.
They stumbled out of the gloomy tent and into the chill morning air. A light mist rose from the grass and muted the sounds of shouting as the camp came to life. Here and there dew glistened on the grass as the early morning rays of sun caught it. The air itself was chilled perfectly, with no hint of pollution, perfumed with the smell of ‘early morning’.
‘Singeorge! Focus you fugging muppet!’
He whipped his head up to find the PDF trooper was just inches from his face. He grimaced as flecks of spittle landed on his lips and the man’s sour breath reached his nostrils. A quick glance down allowed him to read the name tag on the man’s breast pocket. Avon.
He didn’t even have time to apologise. Avon started herding them down the path between the rows of tents and towards their assigned mess tent. The day that followed indicated that the future did not bode well for the new recruits.
With barely thirty minutes to eat what could only be called food by someone who had never actually tasted properly cooked food, they were then herded like sheep from pillar to post. First, they were taken to the wash area where they were forced to strip and wash using special delousing soap. Next they went to what could only charitably be called a barber’s to have their hair shaved down to the scalp. From there they went to the Quartermaster’s where they received their uniforms and basic equipment, handing over their civilian clothes and changing into the scratchy uniforms there and then.
Singeorge’s feet were aching. Not once had they been allowed to walk. Avon had kept them jogging from location to location. Sweat dripped off his face and steam rose from his clothes in the early evening chill. He stood in an orderly row with his fellow recruits. All of them felt like they had been run ragged. Chests heaved and tongues licked dry lips. They had soon learnt that they should only drink when ordered to do so. Drinking without orders was not something even the bravest of them wanted to do.
Avon had well and truly made an example of the first recruit to drink without permission. He had quietly asked if the recruit had finished drinking. Then he had made him drink all of the contents of his bottle. Refilling it, he had made the recruit drink that bottle too. Ten bottles later and the recruit was reduced to vomiting, stomach cramps causing him to practical fold in half with the pain.
“You do not, I repeat not, do anything without asking me first! You only do what I give you permission to do, when I give you permission to do it. Obeying orders is going to become second nature. Waiting for orders is going to become second nature. Do you understand?” The last three words were punctuated by three vicious kicks to his victim.
+ + + + +
After five minutes of standing to attention on the hard-packed mud the recruits saw an officer stride onto the parade ground. Next to him was a vox-servitor. The officer took hold of a mike and faced the ranks of recruits in front of him. There was an air of expectation and Singeorge could feel himself leaning forward desperate to hear what the officer was going to say.
'Men and women if the Imperium, I am Colonel Javier Cisco, Commandant of Training Facility Two Five, your new home for the next few months. Listen well as you will only here this once. Welcome to the Imperial Guard. Today you embark upon a journey that is going to be long and hard.
We are on a crusade to free our system and save the lives of countless billions. There are those amongst you who are going to die. Some of you will die badly, failing to serve the Emperor as they should. Others will die as heroes and their names will live on forever. They will become heroes that will fade into myth and legend. Who knows, you might even have a tank named after you!’ He paused as there was a smattering of chuckling from the massed ranks.
‘If you are an extrovert, we will make you an introvert, if you are an introvert we will make you extrovert. If you think you are a pacifist, we will make you into a born-killer. The Imperial Guard training cadre will mould you into whatever shape they think best fits the Emperor's need, and there's fug-all you can do about it.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
I shall now hand you over to the tender ministrations of your assigned instructor. Good luck, you need it.'
+ + + + +
Company Sergeant Major (CSM) Maximillian was a short, lithe man. He stood with slightly rounded shoulders - as if there was an invisible weight resting across them - and looked down at the floor as they entered the combat gym.
'Come on people, look lively, we don't have all day you know. Line up over there, across the length of the room.' He lifted his head slightly as he looked at each one of them.
'Today you're going start to learn the Instinctive Fighting System, a comprehensive system that covers marksmanship, empty handed fighting, knife and stick fighting, and improvised weapon fighting.' he paused and scratched his face as he looked at the recruit named Baron, a hulking ex-oil rig engineer with a reputation of a short temperature. He’d already been one serious pain in the arse on the trip to the base and had continued to be so throughout their time there.
'The system is designed to play to your strengths. If there is a Method, or a technique that you can't make work, then you will be encouraged to tweak it until it does. Unlike the Departmento Munitorum where tweaking with what they give you will result in a flogging and, or, death, NOT tweaking what you are going to learn will end up in your death.'
He pointed at Baron and then at himself. There was a good six inches of height difference, and only the Emperor knew how much the weight difference was.
'Ambull,' he pointed back at Baron, 'you think you can take me, man-to-man?'
'Throne CSM, I can take any pussy in the room!' Baron' chest swelled with confidence and pride, stretching the fabric of his already tight t-shirt to near bursting point.
Silex leaned slightly to the side and stage-whispered into Finn's ear.
'The metaphorical size of Baron' brain is sadly vastly outmatched by his muscles', he paused as a line of titters ran through the room. Ever since they had started training, Baron had picked on the loners and those unable to look after themselves, ‘Fifty shillings says that the CSM will finish him in under twenty seconds.’
‘Ladies and gentleman! Wagering on the fate of one’s fellow man is below you! Especially when twenty seconds is far too long! Put me down for 100 shillings and under ten seconds.’ A gasp echoed across the room and money started changing hands.
‘Fuck you sir! I’m five times bare-hands foundry champion’ Baron was literally red with fury.
‘Lesson one – never give any information to your enemy that might be to their advantage. Lesson two is to shortly follow. You ready?’
He slowly slipped his right foot back, feet pointing forty-five degrees to his right, hands raised in front of his face. Relaxing his legs he sank his weight, spreading the load evenly. Then he went still. His breathing was slow and steady. Baron on the other hand had adopted a high closed-fist guard, leaning forward slightly as his hands moved slowly to an beat only he could hear. His breathing was increasingly rapid as adrenalin coupled with rage kicked in.
‘Any time you’re ready big boy, anytime.’
With a speed belied by his size Baron launched a stinging left jab followed with a huge swinging rear-hand hook, stamping his left foot down with the jab, adding power to his hook and preparing his body for a left-handed follow-up.
No doubt that was plan. Maximillian was ready however. He quickly closed both arms over his head, ducking into the jab so that it was smothered on his forearms. Without a pause he stepped his right leg forward and shifted his forearms so that they blocked the hook. Baron’ right arm dropped to his side as the relaxed block used his own strength to damage him. Maximillian’s forearms hit the inside of his arm in the mid-bicep and mid-forearm. Baron might as well have taken a swing at a lamp-post for all the effect his punch had on Maximillian, and the pain that he felt was as bad as if he had taken a swing at a lamp-post. As his third attack started to come in Maximillian shunted his right leg back, popping behind Baron’ leg, and swung a light ridge hand into his neck. With his balance destroyed Baron had only one option – and that option involved crashing to the ground.
‘Fug!’ Neither the blow, nor the fall had done any damage, but the shock of the block and Maximillian’s speed had rocked Baron. The fight had barely been going for three seconds and already his right arm was numb and he was on his back. Nevertheless he quickly bounded to his feet.
With barely a pause he launched a wicked right shin kick at Maximillian’s lead leg. He was clearly aiming to break the knee and take the CSM to the ground. There was a sickening crack as his shin slammed into the sole of the CSM’s lead boot. His leg bounced back and the CSM landed into the space where it would have been had his kick been successful. The CSM drove his rear knee into the inside of Baron’ thigh and dropped his full weight behind a jaw punishing elbow strike. Without a sound Baron crashed face-first into the floor. He quietly started to snore.
‘Time?’ The CSM was barely out of breath and appeared to be as relaxed as he had been before the match started.
‘Seven seconds sir!’ That brought a cheer from the lips of those who had bet on the small CSM and a groan from those that had bet on Baron, mostly his cronies.
‘Lesson two. Let your opponent do the hard work, be ‘lazy’. Use their natural reactions to create openings that you can exploit. Don’t block hard, block soft. When you hit, hit with full power and try to finish the fight there and then. Don’t play with the opponent. In the first exchange I dropped him to the floor. I could have finished him there and then or made my escape. In the second exchange I closed and dropped him with multi-level strikes.’
‘Now, pick a partner and we’ll cover the basics. Oh, and someone get a medic, he’s in the way.’
+ + + + +
After three weeks of training the friends were becoming fitter, harder and more determined. Most days they were too busy to even think about their past lives and most nights they were too busy sleeping to even dream. Strangely, they found themselves enjoying the challenge. The tasks might not be enjoyable, but the sense of achievement that they were getting from doing them was.
Most of them had been unaware of the fact that they were merely coasting through life, taking the easy route and enjoying life’s comforts without actually pushing themselves. The common excuses of ‘too tired’, ‘not enough time’, ‘I have family’, ‘I stubbed my toe three years ago and I’m still in pain’ no longer applied. Too tired translated into ‘can’t be bothered’ and was a challenge in itself that had to be overcome. No matter how tired they were, in a battle tiredness was not an excuse. Small injuries that would have been valid excuses for not doing something were now a matter of course. Repeating running and kicking meant that everyone had shin splints. At least one in five had bandaged fingers, strapped knees and ankles and was bordering on a painkiller dependency.
The last three weeks had covered physical training and drills. When they weren’t doing hand-to-hand they were running obstacle courses, when they weren’t doing that they were being drilled. And they still hadn’t seen – let alone held – a real weapon. Today they were finally getting their hands on their las rifles.
The Elsimate system regiments didn’t use the standard issue lasguns issued to most Guard regiments. Normal Infantry-of-the-line units used the Sinclair Bullpup Mk 8 (SB08), with the cell being behind the trigger and nearer to the shoulder of the firer. This meant that the overall length of the weapon could be reduced whilst still keeping the barrel long. This had the knock-on effect of lightening the weapon and therefore allowing the guardsmen to carry more equipment. A fore-grip helped with accuracy as did the occluded eye gunsight (OEG), which allowed the troopers to aim with both eyes open and see a red dot imposed upon the enemy.
Whilst Silex was issued with an SB08, Singeorge and Kraiman received the SB07c (Carbine). This was even shorter than the SB08 and had a folding stock. Standard-issue lasguns and even SB08’s were too bulky for tank crews to use safely, and could even hinder a rapid exit from a burning vehicle. Rather than lose precious skilled tankers, the Elsimations had developed the carbine. With a higher fire rate of four hundred and forty rounds per minute they weren’t designed to conserve ammunition but were to be used to drive off boarders and other close-in attackers.
The day went slowly however as it was spent in a classroom where they were drilled continuously on the components of the rifle, how to strip it, how to clean it and how use the sling. Little did they know that from now on they would disassemble and reassemble their weapons at least once every morning and every night. Knowing how to do this in the heat of a battle would ensure their safety and that of their companions.
+ + + + +
‘Troopers! Listen in. Today you learn how to use the Mk2 Bayonet. This is your back-up weapon. Let me assure you, you will get close to the enemy at some point. You will need to drive this into their xeno-cursed bodies repeatedly and you will need to know how to defend yourself successfully using one.’
CSM Maximillian strode up and down in front of the recruits, holding the bayonet above his head. Stopping, he snapped it onto the lugs at the front of the rifle.
‘This bayonet is now fixed. And this is how you hold a rifle with a fixed bayonet. It’s basically a modified defence stance. Keep your weight balanced, and the rifle facing forwards. Assume this position. Hah!’
One hundred voices roared as the recruits assumed the bayonet position. From there he lead them through how to thrust, parry, butt swipe, cut and slash. After an hour of this, the sweat was flowing freely.
‘Right, now you are efficient at killing thin air we will use the dummies. Key thing to remember, if you hit the blade of the bayonet on anything, it will snap. I will hear it and I will beat the living shit out of you! Always parry with your weapon. Never parry with the blade. Sound it out!’
They roared out the last sentence commenced to battle the dummies. The drill was simple, they had to parry aside the dummy’s rifle then thrust into the centre mass. From there it was a twist withdrawal, hooking butt swipe to the head followed by a cutting slash from left to right.
Finally, just as they were convinced that they couldn’t sweat another drop time was called. Dog-tired they jogged over to the transports and back to base for food. Another day in the Guard finished. Emperor know how many more to come.