Just as the sun began to dip two days later, the entire regiment found itself in formation in the main courtyard beyond their headquarters once again. Dressed in freshly pressed winter fatigues, shaved, and groomed, the Guardsmen stood at attention with their chins held high. Colonel Isaev and the regimental staff stood between two massive standards in front of the main body of troops. Crisp, ocean winds whipped the flags, making them snap and flutter. Normal routines ceased for the duration of the ceremony; Enginseers’ bands of servitors fell quiet and much of the supporting personnel were watching from the periphery.
Marsh Silas stood in front of Bloody Platoon with Lieutenant Hyram to his right and Junior Commissar Carstensen to his left. All their uniforms were cleaned and pressed, flak armor was polished and the olive drab sheen shone brightly in the sun. Officers and non-commissioned officers wore khaki soft-cover, low-peaked caps. Absent were some of the wounded men from the previous action.
He was glad for the stimulant Honeycutt gave him earlier. His side still ached terribly after receiving such a wound. It would have been a disgrace to stand with his comrades wincing from the pain.
“Today, Cadian High Command wishes to honor those of you who performed able service during the last battle,” Colonel Isaev said through a hailer. “I am very proud that you are to be decorated once more in such short order. It proves not only to myself but more importantly, the Emperor of Man, that Cadians are the finest soldiers the Imperium has to offer.”
One of his staff officers stepped over with a Data-slate which he promptly passed over to the regimental commander. Colonel Isaev read off a list of names for different medals. Medics and Field Chirurgeons were called up to receive Crimson Skulls. Another more populous wave of troops were called up to receive awards such as degrees of the Cadian Cross, Gallantry Stars, Gallantry Medals, Eagle Extraordinaires, and Eagle Ordinaries. Marsh Silas, Hyram, Carstensen, Walmsley Minor, Yoxall, and several other members of Bloody Platoon were summoned. Standing in a line, they waited for the Colonel. Many had already received such awards and subsequent decorations were denoted on the ribbon with miniature bronze skull pins. Marsh possessed ribbons with several bronze pins, while Carstensen’s ribbon rack was decorated with both bronze and silver skulls. Hyram’s ribbon rack was very sparse even with his recent additions.
Marsh Silas wondered if the junior officer was embarrassed to be standing among such decorated Guardsmen. But his face was firm like the other assembled troops and betrayed no emotion. Even if he felt like he was not fit to be among them, Marsh Silas did not believe he needed to feel ashamed. He fought very well during both battles and led his men ably. It was a service to be proud of, but Marsh knew the Lieutenant was not going to let it go to his head. Seeing the officer standing tall with his chin up, made the platoon sergeant grin.
His smile quickly disappeared as Colonel Isaev stepped in front of him, his black leather boots thudding on the concrete pavement. From the medal chest, he presented the Cadian Cross with Swords and the Cadian Gallantry Star 1st Class. They shook hands and exchanged salutes. Isaev betrayed little emotion. Once all the Guardsmen were decorated, they were ordered back into formation. The Colonel resumed his spot among his clique of officers. “For their daring infiltration and valorous assault on the heretical stronghold, 1st Platoon, 1st Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment, shall receive the Ribbon Intrinsic. The Guardsmen of 1st Platoon proved their unanimous faith in the Emperor, their loyalty to one another, and their capability as a combat infantry unit.”
Several of his officers, carrying small chests, filed out. They went down each row and pinned the pendant on the chest of every Guardsmen in the platoon. Everyone beamed with pride. Marsh Silas did too as the pendant was placed right beside his previous awards. When everyone received it, the officers returned to the other regimental staff members.
Colonel Isaev nodded approvingly. “Take rest, ye Guardsmen, while you can. The Emperor will have need of you before long. Dismissed.”
The entire regiment saluted; the simultaneous snap of arms pierced the air. Isaev returned it. Officers turned on their heels, belted out orders, and the formation broke apart. While other companies and platoons filed back to their quarters before their next detail, Bloody Platoon gathered around. All greeted one another with smiles and laughter. Praise and congratulations passed between the honored brothers. Some shook hands and others pressed their foreheads together. Fellow Cadians embraced one another in groups of three, four, and five. Eventually, all the various clots and groups of Guardsmen knelt, offered prayers of gratitude to the Emperor, and then rose up.
Marsh Silas parted from Drummer Boy, Yoxall, Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, Honeycutt, Logue, and Foley. Hyram was also parting from some of the other troopers. He wore a proud, wide smile. As their gazes met, the platoon leader worked his way through Bloody Platoon and over to Marsh. Just as he closed in, the platoon sergeant saluted. Hyram returned the gesture smartly before the two locked hands, pulled each other in, and patted each other on the back. It was natural and without second thought. Even as they parted, their hands were still clenched.
“Well done, sir.”
“The same to you, Marsh Silas. You performed quite the spectacle up in the air with Yoxall and Walmsley Minor.”
“A feat I wish not to repeat,” Marsh replied jovially. He looked down and saw the Lieutenant was holding something in his free hand. Hyram noticed, smiled shyly, and opened his fingers. Sitting on his palm were several Ribbon Intrinsic’s.
Marsh Silas looked up with confusion as his own hand dropped. His superior officer shrugged. “Some of our wounded weren’t able to attend the ceremony. Colonel Isaev told me I could pin these on their chests instead of him. Methinks you ought to do something like that.”
The platoon sergeant looked down at the ribbons. Each was composed of a brass medallion in the shape of a shield which curved into a point at the bottom. Out of the two immediate edges came the black ribbon, with a large middle column and smaller ones on either side. Each was divided by a thin, white, vertical bar. Etched into the brass was the double-headed Aquila, with a pronounced, tufted neck.
While it was not of gold or silver like the other medals on his chest, Marsh Silas always looked upon the Ribbon Intrinsic fondly. His first was awarded during his days in the Youth Army. The 540th Youth Regiment was his first home in the Astra Militarum. It was there he met the likes of Arnold Yoxall, the Walmsley Brothers, Logue, Foley, Monty Peck, Efflemen, Olhouser, Hitch, Bullard, Sudworth, and eventually most of the men who made up Bloody Platoon. All Kasr Polaris born, one by one, he came to call them comrades, then brothers. Bound by faith and war, they survived countless onslaughts, operations, and battles. When the 540th was destroyed, it was they who survived and earned the Ribbon Intrinsic and the Triple Skull. While the latter was one which unearthed painful, horrifying memories, it was the former which reminded him of that kinship. Those who survived were forever bound together and always would be, even if many of their fellow Guardsmen were laid low. To bestow it on his friends would not only be an honor but a privilege among such a tight-knit band.
Marsh reached forward and wrapped Hyram’s fingers around them. He met the Lieutenant’s confused gaze with a kind smile.
“It’ll mean something if they receive them from you. They respect Hyram the Lieutenant; now let them see Hyram the man.”
Hyram opened his hand and looked upon the ribbons again. At first, he seemed almost ashamed. But his brow eventually knitted with determination and he looked up. He nodded resolutely.
“I shall see it done.” Hyram turned around and began walking towards the infirmary. After a few paces he stopped and turned around. With a cheerful grin, he nodded at the platoon sergeant. “When we find ourselves in our barracks once more, we’ll be sitting down for lessons.”
“Yes, sir, looking forward to it sir,” Marsh replied sarcastically and added a slovenly salute for effect. Hyram laughed as he continued on his way. Watching him go, Marsh Silas could not help but smile. Even after the platoon leader passed through the entrance of the Medicae, he was still watching. His gaze shifted and he watched Bloody Platoon as they returned to the barracks. To hear their colorful banter, rough swearing, and raucous laughter brought joy to the platoon sergeant’s heart. Happy and proud, he indulged in his mood with a few puffs on his pipe. Thin, gray smoke filtered out and was snatched away by the wind.
Out of the crowd, the Junior Commissar appeared and ventured in his direction. She held up her hand when he attempted to salute.
“You may stand at ease.” Just as he relaxed his posture, the Junior Commissar reached forward and plucked the ebony pipe from the platoon sergeant’s mouth. “Staff Sergeant, we have made a habit these past operations of saving one another from peril. I find this...” she took a puff on the pipe and exhaled. “...amusing.” She turned the pipe around and around in her hands. The ebony shone brightly in the setting sun. Her thumb ran over the Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl and then she tapped the end of the neck with her forefinger.
Eventually, she looked back at him. “It seems I have an ally in you. Some Guardsmen would be most content with letting their Commissar perish and be free of the threat they pose.”
Briefly, Marsh Silas thought about stating his usual excuse; that there was nothing to fear and all Commissars were fair. But he could tell by her green-blue gaze, hard as ferrocrete, that she would see through the ploy. He knew that she knew he was well aware of how Guardsmen feared their Commissars. Even true soldiers like Cadians were wary of them. For so long, Marsh Silas had been under the watchful eyes of Ghent since his boyhood and too many times the Commissar had proven his ruthlessness.
His heart thumping in his chest, he cleared his throat.
“Not I, ma’am. Commissar you may be but we all be soldiers o’ the Emperor. We have a duty to Him and to one another.”
Carstensen regarded him for a moment, puffing on Marsh’s pipe. Her brow remained furrowed and her eyes stayed hard. She took a step forward and it took all of Marsh’s courage not to take one back. With an inquisitive glare, she looked him up and down. Eventually, her expression softened. Taking the pipe from her lips, she exhaled one final time and turned it around.
“Open.”
Marsh blinked and gingerly opened his mouth. Carstensen rested the neck of the pipe on his bottom lip. “Close.”
Marsh Silas obeyed and adjusted the pipe. Carstensen folded her hands behind her back. After regarding him for a moment, she nodded a little. “I am sure you are alone in this thinking among your fellow Guardsmen.”
“These gunmen will follow any order you give’um and if they don’t, they’ll have to answer to me,” he said in a rough tone and jerked his thumb towards himself. “I’ll whip’em into shape.”
At this, Carstensen smirked a little.
“I would expect nothing less, although I suppose you would rather wish they received punishment from you than I.”
Marsh blinked a little, his lips parting just enough to let his pipe droop.
“I ain’t soft on’em, Junior Commissar.”
“Let’s hope for your sake and theirs, you’re not.” Carstensen adjusted her cap slightly on her orange locks and swept a strand behind her hair. “Carry on, Staff Sergeant.”
Marsh Silas stood at attention and saluted. Carstensen returned the gesture, turned on her heel, and began walking towards the barracks. When she was a few paces away, Marsh breathed shallowly.
“Ma’am?” This was enough to make her stop and turn on her heel in a mechanical fashion. Her posture remained poised and fixed. “When the men were running, they…” Marsh shut his eyes and shook his head. “...well, I thought you was very brave. I also wish to thank you for not carrying out any punishments in the field. You had the right to do so, but you didn’t. It means something to me.”
“I do not believe Bloody Platoon will be requiring any such...” Carstensen hesitated, her eyes moved as if she was searching for something, and her lips seemed to move a little. “...whipping, as you say, at the present time. They ran, but they came back. That is what courage is truly made of. Their performance in the field is satisfactory. As is yours.”
Without another word or gesture, she turned swiftly and marched towards the barracks. Marsh Silas stood among the dispersing crowd of the regiment, pipe dangling from his lips and eyes blinking. It took him some time to overcome his stupor and when he did, he could not help but feel that he may have just cheated death.
He plucked his low-peaked cap from his blonde locks, ran his free hand through them, scratched, neatened it, and placed his hat back on. Just as he was about to follow, he felt an arm fall across his shoulders and whirl him around. He found himself being marched towards the front gate. Looking up to his left, he frowned as he saw Barlocke staring at him, a smug smile plastered to his face.
“She’s intrigued by you, young sergeant,” he said.
“Really?” Marsh asked, blinking.
“Well, as intriguing as a flake during snowfall,” Barlocke joked, making himself laugh. “Oh, don’t pout, Silvanus. I only jest. She is, she is. Or perhaps, it might be more apt to say she’s confused by you just as you are by her.”
“I’m a plain fellow, methinks.”
“Not quite so,” Barlocke assured him. “You may just look like another one of these Guardsmen, but that doesn’t make you exactly like them in every regard. You’re your own man and a special one at that.”
“Special, he says. Bah.” The pair exited the gate. Barlocke waved at one of the sentries. Never having been engaged by an Inquisitor once in his life, the sentry’s eyes popped, his jaw went slack, and his shoulders sagged. After a moment, he weakly raised a hand and returned the gesture. With Barlocke’s arm still around him, Marsh plodded down the road until they were past the perimeter fortifications. Just in front of the tangles of anti-tank traps and barbed wire entanglements were the yellow flower fields. Together, they veered into them, pushing through the green stalks. Yellow petals fell from brownish buds as they did. Salty winds caught the petals, swirling them around in little clouds before abating. Hundreds of little yellow petals would then flutter to the earth.
Barlocke squeezed Marsh’s shoulder. “I could tell you were different from the moment I met you. You dress like a Cadian, talk like a Cadian, act like a Cadian, fight like a Cadian, look like a Cadian—”
“I am Cadian.”
“—but there’s more to you than that.”
“Now I’m interested,” Marsh sarcastically replied. He complimented his tone with an unconvinced smile and a roll of his violet eyes. He puffed his pipe and readjusted it, holding it by the neck with his middle and forefinger, while his ring and little fingers remained vertical. The pair did not walk parallel to the road and instead wandered towards the beach. Before long, they broke from the swaying yellow flowers and their boots sank into the sand. Breakers crashed on the shore, sending white spray in all directions.
“You’ll certainly be disappointed with my answer.”
“I shan’t like what you have to say about me?”
“I haven’t a clue as to what makes you so different from the rest,” Barlocke said, finally sliding his arm off Marsh’s shoulder. He walked around in front of him, reached out, and held Marsh’s upper arms. “And that’s what makes you so fascinating!”
A wry smile tugged at Marsh’s lips.
“When you finally find your answer, I suppose I’ll become rather boring, then?”
“By the Emperor, no. You are my friend, and friends never cease to be entertaining.” He quirked an eyebrow, raised his gaze, and thought for a moment. “Well, good friends at the very least.”
Barlocke turned towards the surf, his gaze growing forlorn. He took off his cap and let the wind play with his hair. Hands on his hips, he drew a long, weary, depressed breath. He walked up the water’s edge and Marsh stood behind him.
“So, what of the Junior Commissar?” Marsh asked after clearing his throat, trying to occupy the Inquisitor. Barlocke turned around, grinning cleverly.
“Aha, she said it herself. Many Guardsmen would pass by their Commissar if they were in great danger. All know the reputation of the Officio Prefectus’s esteemed agents. In the quiet sectors of our vast, great Imperium, where no enemies besiege our worlds, a Commissar is more of a threat than a rampaging Ork or a piratical Aeldari Corsair.”
Immediately, Marsh Silas felt Barlocke in his mind again; he knew he was aware only because his friend wished him to. This time it was warm, like a hand gently laying his head upon a pillow. Instinctively, he closed his eyes and a sigh passed between his lips. For a moment, he could not tell if he was standing up or laying among the soft flowers behind him. He did not wish to know and simply basked in the sensation spreading from his mind to the rest of his body. Every breath he took was deep and sweet. So candied was the taste he took his pipe from his lips and let the strange air fill his lungs. When the feeling faded, sadness filled him for but a moment. He opened his eyes, cleared his throat, and put his pipe back. Barlocke was still looking at him, his eyes burning bright and his smile growing happier. “I can feel your fear of them. More than that, your antipathy for them.”
“Anti-pathy?”
“Hatred.” Barlocke turned. “Perhaps, one in particular?”
Marsh Silas frowned.
“You was in my head and you didn’t find it?”
“My dear Sergeant, if I dipped into the memory of each and every individual I met, life would be very boring. I assure you still I have never delved into your past without your express permission. But the feelings you conjure up, those are unavoidable even for someone as practiced as myself.”
When Marsh Silas didn’t answer, Barlocke turned around and held out his arms. “Well, will you tell me who it is?”
“Ain’t many Commissars in our regiment. You’re bound to figure it out,” Marsh said rather bluntly. Barlocke did not seem hurt but delighted. It was as if someone presented him with a challenge, one he was all too eager for.
“There are a few. But it appears you and the Regimental Commissar have a history. More complicated than the one you share with Hayhurst. I wonder what Ghent did to merit your rancor.”
“I ain’t one to talk about it now. May we speak of Carstensen instead? Tis less of o’ drab discussion,” Marsh said, staring into the embers of his pipe.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Oh, yes indeed. You ponder why she is curious of you, yet I am more intrigued as to your curiosity of her. Maybe she is just as much an oddity to you as you are to her.” Marsh Silas did not answer immediately. Barlocke turned completely and approached. Slightly stooping to keep his eyes level with Marsh, he wore a smirk. “Perhaps, you find her beautiful?”
At that moment, Marsh was in the middle of inhaling from his pipe. Suddenly, the smoke seemed to catch in his throat and he coughed.
“What makes you say that?” he finally wheezed.
“I’ve seen you looking at her.”
“Only a fool doesn’t pay attention to a superior officer when they be speaking.”
“Except your eyes find her whether she speaks or not.”
Marsh Silas’s voice faltered and he felt deflated. He gently lowered his pipe and his gaze fell upon his boots. Not a moment later, he felt Barlocke’s hand upon his shoulder. He looked up and found the Inquisitor’s smile to be far kinder. “No shame, Silvanus, no shame. It’s perfectly alright to look.”
“It ain’t that,” Marsh protested. “She's more than just somethin' to look at. She's one hell of a soldier. I admire her and her courage is so inspiring. I suppose I’s feel like I owe her much. I would have gotten my chest right torn up if she had not pushed me aside.”
“And in quite a brave fashion as well,” Barlocke said, hooking his thumbs on his belt loops. “She saw it as a matter of duty. Perhaps, you feel it is another matter altogether. Look out for one another as soldiers, as you have, but don’t act as though you are indebted. She does not feel that way.”
“How can you be certain she...oh, yes.”
Barlocke chuckled and faced the sea once again. Slowly, he approached the surf until his boots were submerged. Breakers threatened to spill over the top of his footwear and fill them up. But as the cold water washed over his feet and receded, leaving nothing but white foam, the Inquisitor remained perfectly still. To Marsh Silas, it seemed as though Barlocke did not feel the cold at all. The man seemed undisturbed
“I knew I picked well.”
“Picked? What do…” Marsh blinked, then chuckled dryly. “You went over to those Junior Commissars and found the one who was going to make me think differently o’ the lot. Seems your lesson had far more structure than I gave it credit for.”
“Oh, there were more than a few idealistic officers in her cadre,” Barlocke said. “They all wanted to be full Commissars. One wanted to achieve his promotion by inspiring his troops through faith and scripture, believing it is fpiety alone that gives us strength. Another very strict-sort planned to drill the men under his wing and ensure they were well aware of every guideline—that way none would have to face corporal punishment or worse. But Carstensen? She seeks to set examples and inspire because she truly believes that makes a Commissar. Out of all of them, she had the most to offer.”
Barlocke turned back to the sea. “Perhaps, when it is finally time to go, she can come with us.”
Marsh nodded a little, stopped, and looked up.
“She’ll be on for the raid, won’t she?”
“I doubt I could dissuade her from coming,” Barlocke mused without looking over his shoulder. “I speak of afterwards. When you come with me.”
To hear him say it that way pierced Marsh Silas’s heart. His mind went to the homeworld; from birth, Cadians were instilled not only with great love for the Emperor and the Imperium, but this fortress among the stars. It stood as the first bastion of many against the Eye of Terror. Such importance was not lost on loyal, dutiful Cadian sons and daughters. But all Shock Troopers longed for an off-world assignment, to engage in a campaign or crusade for the glory of the Emperor. Such an honor was worth the departure from their sacred world. To say that he never dreamed of serving in a crusading army would be a lie. Yet, to be an Acolyte for the Emperor’s own Inquisition? Honor, prestige, glory unending; what rewards!
“I ain’t made up my mind yet,” Marsh Silas admitted. “Thinking about it right now makes me feel hollow. We’ve had difficult and strange times but we’ve done much good and felt a great deal of joy, too. Joy, a word I realize I ain’t ever had much use of. These days here on Army’s Meadow seem like they may never end but that don’t seem like such o’ bad thing. Not sure I want to leave, now.”
“When I came here, it was without the intent to select another Acolyte. But when I met you, I could tell you were different. You have the makings of someone more.” Barlocke turned around and the pair stared at one another. Their gaze was deep and intense. Barlocke’s dark eyes burned like coals while the violet in Marsh’s shimmered like gems. Wind ripped across the cape and the Inquisitor’s trench coat fluttered. It was so strong it knocked Marsh’s cap from his head and his blonde hair was swiftly thrown about. Behind his opposite, the waves grew larger, fell with greater frequency, and became more ferocious. Each time a rippling, seething breaker barreled towards land and crashed upon the sand, it sounded like an artillery shell going off. When the water rushed up towards them, it came all the way up to Barlocke’s knees. Still, he did not seem to feel the water even as the spray splashed upon his back.
Marsh Silas looked down and saw his low-peaked cap sitting upside down upon the sand. For a time, he stared at it, unable to tear his gaze away. Clutching his pipe firmly with his lips, he bent over, picked it up, and brushed it off. But instead of putting it back on, he turned it over and over in his hands. Finally, he tucked the cap under his shoulder strap and took the pipe from his lips. He looked up, not so much apprehensive as he was melancholic.
“You talk about choice. You’ve been so kind as to afford me the opportunity in this matter.”
“Of course. You are my dear friend. I would never force you to choose. Yet, I do sincerely hope you agree to come with me.” Upon hearing such words, Marsh Silas suddenly grew bitter. Upending his pipe, allowing the wind to carry away the orange embers and gray ash, he approached the Inquisitor. He did not stop until his boots sunk into the wet sand where the waves’ reach was greatest.
“Because I am different? Special?” he asked, his tone acidic. Still, the Inquisitor’s smile remained although his gaze softened.
“Yes, but as well, I enjoy you. Your voice, your words, your presence, they...” he looked down, almost as if he was shy. “...they bring great cheer to me. I feel as though you are my old friend, familiar to me from times long past.”
Marsh’s acrimonious mood proved brief and it was replaced by bashful surprise. Straightening up, eyes a bit wider, he averted Barlocke’s eyes again. Quickly, he recovered and offered a nonchalant shrug.
“Why not stay for a while then?”
“Such a prospect proves impossible, dear, dear Silvanus.” Barlocke turned in the surf and held his arms out. “There is great work to be done. This grand Imperium is in disrepair and in need of mending. What glory it lays claim to is not what it could be, it could be so much more, just as the Emperor intended. Man should not have to live in fear from within and without, Man must prosper, grow, and act as the Emperor wished; so, I have work to do.”
Barlocke turned around, his arms still held out to the sides. In the sky, the golden sun grew brighter and the sea behind him glittered. Waves smashed behind and alongside him, soaking his coat. As if the water granted him vigor, he walked quickly from the water and took Marsh by the shoulders. “And I hope, I pray, you come with me. I know we can make the Imperium better; better than it ever was!”
Marsh felt his heart soar. Whatever vitality coursed through Barlocke seemed to fill up the platoon sergeant’s chest. He smiled widely and his eyes glowed with excitement. Seeing this, Barlocke placed his hand upon Marsh’s cheek and he gently ran his thumb across it. They stood that way, nearly nose to nose, and Marsh Silas felt not only happy, but was certain of his answer.
From within the camp, there was a series of extended cries. Such calls were familiar to the ears of Marsh Silas; it was a changing of the guard. A new shift was reliving the previous watch. Such hails and greets were part of Cadian culture. There were no set words or phrases one had to utter, save for security challenges in the nighttime bleakness. The words between Shock Troopers were to be brotherly, robust, and full of life. Often, they addressed one another with salutes, good tidings, blessings, smiles, handshakes, and embraces. If the morning roll call did not rouse a soldier, it was the exchange of greetings that would wake him. A life of military tradition and duty came flooding back to Marsh Silas. From the first time he was handed an M36 lasgun to the Month of Making, his first regimental prayer to Commissar Ghent’s arduous lessons, it all came back as if he were taking a long breath.
After looking at the camp for a time, he faced Barlocke and saw the Inquisitor’s eyes were saddened. Unable to bear it, the platoon sergeant looked down. He felt Barlocke’s hands fall from his face. “I understand. To abandon such an existence would be akin to losing touch with life itself.”
Such words soothed Marsh Silas enough that he looked up once more. Barlocke’s expression was still dismal but his smile remained affable. He started to walk by the platoon sergeant but halted. Reaching over, he took him by the cheek again and guided his gaze to his. “Please, continue thinking on it.”
“I shall,” Marsh promised. Barlocke’s hand remained, his fingers sliding back into Marsh’s hair. His forefinger twisted one of the platoon sergeant’s blonde locks around until it became a curl. Then, he slid his hand away and trundled back to camp. For a time, Marsh Silas stayed on the shore and looked at the shimmering sea. Steadily, the wind died down and the waves grew calmer. Soon, there were no breakers and the water drew back. With a sigh, he put on his cap and followed the Inquisitor.
***
When Marsh Silas returned to the barracks, he found his mates already gathered in their bunk area. All greeted him warmly and Drummer Boy fixed him a cup of recaf. For a while, they chatted about their exploits in the latest battle, expressed concern for the wounded still at the Medicae center, and told crass jokes. While it felt like just another evening to the other Guardsmen, Marsh could not shake the encounter with Barlocke on the beach. It left his heart heavy and not even the company of his friends alleviated the weight. Still, he stayed in stride with the others up until his lesson with Hyram. Hunched over the table, Marsh Silas scribbled upon a piece of parchment while his commanding officer listed certain words.
“Recaf. Syllables?”
“Two,” Marsh grumbled and wrote the word down. Hyram peered over his shoulder.
“Correct. Canteen, syllables?”
“Two.”
“Very good. Bandoleer, syllables?”
“Ban...do...”
“Sound it out with your mind’s voice, not out loud.”
“But it’s easier to do it this way.”
“Yes, but one day you’ll be a fancy officer with a much bigger ribbon rack, and you wouldn’t want those educated fellows teasing you over sounding out words aloud, would you?”
“It ain’t ever gonna come to that, sir,” Marsh mumbled. “Three.”
“You’re doing well. Let’s try titles. Leman Russ Main Battle Tank. Syllables?”
“Leman—”
“Tut, tut, tut, in your mind’s voice.”
Marsh groaned as he wrote the words down.
“Six syllables.”
“Incorrect.”
“What!?” Marsh sat up, looking at the paper angrily, then leaned forward and examined it again. “There’s six there! I was doing so well!”
“Calm yourself, Marsh Silas. We all make mistakes. Let me show you.”
Grumpily, Marsh slid the paper across the table and dropped the field quill on it. With a huff, he rested his elbow on the edge and rested his cheek upon his hand. Smiling a tad knowingly, Hyram drew vertical lines between each of the syllables. As he did, Marsh’s brow furrowed and he started to glare. Nodding with each stroke of the quill and mouthing out the words, he grew increasingly agitated.
Hyram tapped the second to last word in the title. “You spelled it all wonderfully, but the word, ‘battle,’ is not a single syllable word.”
“Sounds like it. Battle,” he said quickly.
“It’s rather deceiving, it just rolls along so swiftly. If you say it slowly, you’ll see the break. Bat-tle. See?”
“Bat-tle?” Marsh echoed, then groaned. “Seven syllables.”
“Indeed. Don’t be discouraged. You’re doing very well and picking it up steadily. This won’t come easy.”
Marsh’s posture did not change as the Lieutenant slid the paper back in front of him. He gingerly placed the field quill back on it, then folded his hands on the table. An expectant gaze lingered on Marsh Silas but the platoon sergeant instead held his chin, cupped his mouth, and stared down at it. Eventually, he shifted his gaze back to Hyram.
“You make it seem so effortless.”
“I had the benefit of being educated in a Cypra Mundi academy,” Hyram said, leaning a bit more on the table. “All we learn as young ones stays with us. While I was being taught to read and write, you were being trained to fire, field strip, and maintain an M36. I was not, so as you struggle with letters, I struggle with my weapon. We are both experts of some craft and we lend our knowledge to one another.”
“I think you will have a better hand at making war than I at scribing.”
“Nonsense.” Hyram tapped the table and stood up. “But why don’t we break and do an M36 drill?”
The Lieutenant went over to his rucksack and other equipment, stashed in the corner of his room. Propped against the wall was his M36; he took it in hand and sat down at his bunk. Turning around on the crate he sat upon, Marsh picked up his own lasgun which was against the table. Both leveled their weapons across their knees.
“Step one?” Marsh asked, grinning.
“Ensure the safety is engaged.
“Right, don’t want to be blasting yemate sitting beside ya. Step two?”
“Eject the charge pack.”
“Not only do you have to clean the magazine well, it’s also safer to—”
“Sir, permission to enter!” came Drummer Boy’s voice.
“Granted,” Hyram answered.
The Voxman entered, stood at attention, and saluted. Hyram did not stand but still saluted. “What news?”
“Sir, the watch reports something queer in the air and strange sounds in the night.”
Hyram and Marsh exchanged a glance.
“Could just be the low tide. Channels and bays round’ these parts drain from time to time, usually in the morning and once more at night. Stinks terribly.”
“That doesn’t explain the noise,” Hyram pondered. “Did they describe it?”
“Sir, they said they heard moaning. Much of it. Far off, but nobody can place it.”
Again, Marsh and Hyram looked at one another. Their expressions had shifted from surprise to concern.
“Have Bloody Platoon stand-to,” Hyram said. “Staff Sergeant, with me.”
Both donned their Flak Armor and helmets, took up their arms and equipment, and hurried through the barracks. As they did, the cry of ‘stand to,’ echoed through its hollows. Guardsmen scrambled to dress and equip themselves. When they were ready, they fell in line behind Marsh and Hyram. Squads formed up and sounded off upon their sergeants’ orders. Like a tight trail of insects, they scrambled up the ladder and flooded out of the bunker.
It was another especially dark night. No stars dotted the sky and the moon maintained a muted glow behind a thick layer of clouds. Only by the dull, yellow and orange lights strung up along the sides of the trench illuminated the fortifications. Walmsley’s Major and Minor instructed the other Heavy Weapons Squads, establishing fields of fire towards the empty channel. From the trenches came the metallic scraping sounds of bayonets sliding out of their scabbards. Once their weapons were loaded, each man mounted the parapet and rested his weapon on the edge.
Marsh followed Hyram into one of the observation posts and they crouched under the mesh netting. Both lifted their magnoculars and scanned the channel. On the opposite side, Kasr Fortis remained a giant, ominous, dark shape.
“Anything?” Hyram asked.
“Negative.”
Feeling someone move behind him, Marsh turned around and expected Barlocke. Instead, it was Junior Commissar Carstensen. She was just putting her cap back on and when she knelt beside Marsh and put a hand on his back.
“What do you see, Staff Sergeant?”
“Nothing at the moment, ma’am.”
Hyram handed his magnocular set to Carstensen.
“Take over here, I’m checking the line. I’ll be back. Drummer Boy, radio the regiment, tell them we’re standing-to.”
As Drummer Boy crouched and began speaking into the handset, Marsh raised his scope again. Just as he did, a gentle but chilly wind swept from Kasr Fortis. With it came a terrible stench, one of decay. Immediately, Marsh Silas was nauseated and he had to lower his head upon the sandbags. His stomach shifted uncomfortably and he gulped, trying to keep the lump rising in his throat down. Then, he felt Carstensen’s hand on his shoulder, pulling slightly. Looking up, practically dazed, she tapped him on the side of his face with her hand. In the low light of the lamp, he could see she was also sickened.
“Stay with me, Staff Sergeant,” she urged. Looking around for something, she took the canteen from Marsh’s belt, unscrewed the cap, and held it to his lips. Marsh drank only a little but the water soothed him enough. When he finished, he nodded in thanks. Carstensen swiftly took a drink before putting it back on Marsh’s belt. She tapped the side of his helmet and pointed back towards the channel. The smell was becoming worse. Up and down the line, Guardsmen coughed. Behind the pair, Drummer Boy leaned forward and vomited. Marsh regarded him briefly, but Drummer Boy nodded at him and kept monitoring the handset.
“Staff Sergeant, just got word right from the top: the entire regiment is to put on their gas masks,” he relayed.
“Bloody Platoon, gas masks, on the double!” Marsh hollered.
Everyone took off their ballistic goggles and attached their gas mask shields to the front of their helmet and then sealed the apparatus. Marsh Silas breathed in and out several times to test the mask and found it sealed properly. He looked over at Drummer Boy, who nodded, and then at Carstensen, who was drawing her Bolt Pistol. Affirming cries of ‘gas masks on,’ echoed throughout the line.
The wind from Kasr Fortis pushed against Marsh Silas. Although he could no longer smell the stench, he could hear terrible, pained moaning. It was growing louder and closer. Just then, detonations rocked the left flank at the beach.
“2nd Platoon, 3rd Company is reporting mines going off at the beach!”
“Do they have a visual on the target?” Carstensen asked.
“Negative, ma’am. Regiment is going to turn on all the lights now.”
Behind them, they heard heavy machinery and generators revving to life. Marsh watched as bright white industrial lights illuminated the camp. Each sector grew brighter, closing in on the perimeter defenses. Finally, the overhead lights above them flashed on and Marsh looked towards the channel. Shambling towards Army’s Meadow was a horde of staggering, moaning dead men. Sickly skin was tight over their rickety bones, intestines spilled from their open bodies, frothy green saliva leaked from their maws, and pus oozed from their ears and nostrils. All were heading towards the beach, level with the channel bottom.
“Emperor protect us!”
“Open fire!” Carstensen screamed. “For the Emperor, open fire!”
The entire line erupted in lasgun and heavy weapons fire. Streaks of golden, blue, red lasbolts accompanied by tracer rounds from Heavy Bolters tore across the cliff’s edge and into the undead horde. Grenade launcher shells arced and landed among their numbers, blowing some to pieces and tossing dozens more in every direction. But, undaunted and uncaring, they staggered onwards.
Marsh Silas exhausted a charge pack and crouched down to load another. When he stood back up, he was about to resume firing when he saw something at the edge of the cliff in front of the observation post. A gnarled, green hand snatched the ledge. Moaning and groaning, one of the undead heaved itself up. On either side of it, dozens more appeared. Everywhere Marsh Silas looked, he could see more of them coming towards the trench. Upon setting eyes on him and Bloody Platoon, the undead wailed and shambled towards them.