In the field, whether it was during a battle, training exercise, or a long range patrol, Cadian Shock Troopers constantly sought two crucial elements: cover and concealment. Cover could be as simple as a hefty boulder to crouch behind, a low wall, or the side of a rockcrete building. More often than not, it provided both aspects as it protected Guardsmen from being shot from most standard weaponry and kept him out of sight. Concealment ranged from anything to a clump of scrub bushes to a sheet metal fence. Anyone hiding among or behind such features would stay out of sight but they would not have the benefit of complete protection. Even autogun slugs could punch right through metal and most weaponry could gnaw vegetation apart. Nonetheless, it was crucial for Guardsmen to capitalize upon both facets during a battle or, in Bloody Platoon’s case, an extended period in the field.
By the Emperor’s will, Cadia’s topography and climates varied widely and this was a boon for the planet’s defenders. In the hinterland north of Army’s Meadow, the land was characterized by ridges, hills, bluffs, crags, ravines, rocks, scrub bushes which survived through the extended winter months, and short stretches of low-standing, gnarled trees. A rapidly changing environment was difficult for enemies to traverse while the Cadians, who trained in these different settings since they were children, knew how to utilize the terrain effectively.
Bloody Platoon hunkered down in a draw for their daytime rest. Two rocky, tree-studded ridges which ran straight for about three hundred meters and curved to the northwest at the end, provided both cover and concealment for the Shock Troopers. Most of the axel-trees had bushy branches, shielding the men from sight and from the sun. On either side, the ridges were high and difficult to cross which would make it difficult for attackers to traverse. Sentries dug in at either end of the column as well as the crests of the ridges Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor erected their Heavy Bolter at the northern side while Albert and Brownlow established their position between two trees at the south. On the western side, Bullard and Hitch concealed themselves with cloaks and lay prone in high grass. Jupp and Hoole took the eastern side. Each of the ridge sentries would be relieved after two hours by other men in the platoon while the Heavy Weapons squads would alternate on the guns.
Marsh Silas bunked down on a patch of earth in between two rocks on the western side of the ridge. A tall, full, ancient tree stood between the two rocks and the fallen needles made a pleasant cushion underneath his sleeping bag. From this spot, he could see the rest of the platoon. Like him, some of the troopers were choosing to camp under trees or against boulders and slabs of stone in the bottom of the draw. Others embedded themselves on the sides of the ridges, digging fighting holes in soil for better cover and concealment. Although the dirt was filled with pebbles, nobody ever dug there before so the earth was easily removed. A few chose elevated spots on the slopes so their holes appeared as tunnel entrances leading deeper into the ridge. Others chose natural crevices to bed down in, disappearing from view.
Everyone took the time to conceal and protect their positions. Those who dug holes mounded the disturbed earth around the rims. Others added heavy rocks, rolling or carrying them to spots which they deemed vulnerable. Fallen branches, particularly those thick with needles, were gathered up and used to camouflage their positions. Some skirted up the slopes and hacked away some of the high scrub grass that coated the top of the ridges. These could be used for cushions but a sprinkling on branches or rocks helped them appear more natural. Fire pits were dug with one hole for ventilation and another for the kindling. This method concealed the flames and minimized smoke. Guardsmen heated their rations and brewed cups of recaf.
Before dawn even broke, Bloody Platoon was entrenched so well some of the men could not even see each other. Marsh Silas smiled proudly at how hard the Guardsmen worked. Even the Whiteshields were diligent, composed, and adept at preparing their positions. More encouraging was how the veterans took the time to assist them, offering advice, helping them collect resources, or even bunking down near them. Conversation, although hushed, was amiable.
It was an incredible relief. The Whiteshields truly were part of the tight-knit group. He understood their initial resistance. Newcomers were hard to take in, especially for Veterans. But these Shock Troopers had to shed their hesitation, fear, and above all, apathy, if they were to make a difference. Just as he had for Asiah and Galo, Hyram, Carstensen, Barlocke, and even that wretched xenos. In doing so, Bloody Platoon learned the Whiteshields were not a weak link. They exhibited the same esprit de corps, ethos, loyalty, faithfulness, and bravery all good Cadians did and adopted those of the platoon.
To see them so heartily engaging one another proved to be a good omen to Marsh Silas. If he, these salty Veterans, and youthful Whiteshields could all change for the better, so could the Imperium. It would have made the long drags on his pipe more fulfilling, if he were allowed to light it. But Yeardley came along with something: a mess tin with rice balls. Steam wafted in the cold air from the hot mess tin.
“How kind o’ ya,” Marsh said as Yeardley flashed his boyish grin. “What is it?”
“From the Drummer Boy, Senior Staff Sergeant, with his compliments,” the Whiteshield replied. “He knew we’d have to subsist off of rations more than fresh food, so he prepared a great deal before we left and preserved it. He made rice rolls with Grox meat; all he had to do was heat them up.” He turned to leave but Marsh tapped him on his side.
“Lad, are you well?”
“Never better, Marsh Silas,” Yeardley said confidently. “I am grateful to you, the Lieutenant, and the Emperor, that we have been able to come out here. We’ll whip the rebs, you’ll see!”
Marsh smiled as the Whiteshield hurried back to his mates. He eagerly eyed the mess tin which was hot to the touch even with his gloves on. But he hastily offered thankful prayers for the food and shoveled the rice into his mouth. Although it lacked the usual condiments, it was still delicious and much better than a reconstituted nutritional paste bar. It was the right way to celebrate the platoon’s growth in lieu of his tabac.
After finishing his meal, he decided to take a walk through the draw to see how the platoon was settling in. First, he was going to give Drummer Boy the mess tin back. The Platoon Command Squad had settled in a semicircle of rocks which was linked end to end by a log. Babcock, having planted the flag into the dirt, took up a hatchet and hacked it in half. When he finished, he pushed the two halves slightly out, making a little path in between them. Then, the Color Sergeant covered them with pine needles. When he finished, he stood with his arms akimbo and nodded, satisfied.
Within this little circle, Hyram sat against a rock with Drummer Boy’s Vox-caster. He was holding the handset to his ear and bouncing his leg. Meanwhile, the Voxman tended one of the fire pits. He was heating up more of the rice balls and took a tin over to Hyram. The Lieutenant nodded as he took it. While keeping the handset against his ear, he picked one up with his other hand and bit conservatively into it. Across from him, Carstensen furnished her sleeping bag against the stump from which the log fell. Having brought a spare blanket, she folded it up and used it as a pillow. Honeycutt was not with them; he was on the other side of the draw within a circle of fallen stones. It was a makeshift aid station; he and the field chirurgeons were tending the few rolled ankles the men suffered during the treacherous trek.
Hyram’s position offered a commanding view of Bloody Platoon. As he sat down beside his platoon leader, Marsh could not only see their high spirits but also feel it. Those who weren’t already asleep were chatting excitedly in hushed tones as if they hadn’t been hard marching for several nights and sleeping in the rough. Everyone was very dirty; their faces and uniforms were stained with mud, dust, and snow. Most of the men were already growing beards, including Marsh Silas. His stubble was very thick and was more brownish than blonde. Scruff coated Hyram’s cheeks, especially around his beard circle, and his voluminous sideburns were becoming even bushier. Nobody washed since before they left camp so everybody bore an amalgamated scent of body stench and the odor of the landscape. A lack of hygiene was important during prolonged field missions; many smells carried on the wind and nearby enemies could sniff out sterile cleansing powder and shaving paste. None of the men were allowed to smoke, wash, clean their teeth, or use any kind of substance with a strong scent.
The Guardsmen did not go out missions like these too often and relished the opportunity. Everyone understood the necessity for stealth and how precarious their position was because of their lack of support. Although it was never too far away, as all Cadia was a fortress, it made the stakes feel much higher. All prayed to the Emperor for success; Marsh Silas heard them murmuring over their meals or before they went to sleep. But all were eager for the challenge and glad for another opportunity to better serve the Emperor.
But there was one Guardsman who was struggling. Unbeknownst to Marsh Silas, the regimental pict-capturer, Valens, had requested to tag along during the mission at the last moment. Colonel Isaev approved it and Hyram accepted. Although the Lieutenant ordered the platoon sergeant to be informed, the word was never passed along. It wasn’t until the first morning they made camp that Marsh Silas discovered the out of place trooper.
Valens was a decent soldier and Bloody Platoon possessed a modicum of respect for him. During the Raid on Kasr Fortis, Valens was separated from regimental command. While he could have sat at the casualty collection point, he came along instead. He fought just as hard and bravely as any line Guardsman did that night. For his overall behavior, he was awarded the Cadian Militarum Merit Medal, Third Class; for assaulting an enemy gun position alone, he was given the Cadian Medal of Valor, Second Class; for shrapnel wounds to his leg, he received his first Vulnerati Medal. Everyone agreed he earned all three awards.
However, Valens hadn’t seen combat since then and had seen very little prior to the raid. Like any Cadian, he possessed all the necessary training. But because his duty required him to snap picts instead of fight, some of his infantry skills atrophied. Just as Marsh looked his way, the man tried to shear off the edge of his fighting hole and instead got the blade of his 9-70 stuck in an exposed root. Somehow, it was stuck so deeply that when he yanked on it he instead fell back into his hole. When the fellow appeared again, he was rubbing the back of his head and his hair was filled with dirt. Embarrassed, he averted Marsh’s gaze and freed his entrenchment tool.
The platoon sergeant was about to go over when Webley and Rayden came over and offered to help him. Instead of blustering for the Whiteshields to mind their business, Valens gladly accepted. Marsh and Hyram smiled as they set to work.
Hyram put down the handset, sighed, and took up his mess tine.
“I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to his coming. What good soldiers those Whiteshields are.”
“Rest o’ the platoon is doin’ just fine, sir. Their confidence gives me great cheer.”
“To me as well,” Hyram said, his mouth full of food. A few bits of rice fell from his lips and caught in his beard. Marsh chuckled; the platoon leader tended to be a prim and proper sort of fellow. When he put aside manners and acted like a tough old soldier, it always made Marsh feel very glad. “I’m confident we shall find something soon.”
“Woe to whoever we find, for we shall make swift, bloody work outta them,” Marsh said, elbowing his friend. Hyram grinned confidently as he finished his meal. The platoon sergeant looked across at Carstensen, who was making the Sign of the Aquila. Laced between her fingers was a string of prayer beads, although their colors were not as muted as the beads Cadians usually carried. They alternated between red, gold, blue, and green beads. She seemed to squeeze these beads with a particular intensity. It was unmatched by her calm expression. Her eyelids fluttered a little, as if she were about to fall asleep. Both lips moved ever so slightly as she recited the words. When she finished, she put the beads away in a meticulous, regimented way and sat back robotically. Every movement she made was so articulated and precise. Marsh became lost in that for a time, admiring Carstensen’s training but also her drive to live so rigorously.
Hyram leaned into view, his brows drawn curiously.
“I said have you been to see the Whiteshields this morn?”
“Huh? Oh, no, sir. I’ll do so immediately.”
“See that you do. Make sure they sleep now. They pull watch just like the rest of us.”
“Aye, sir.”
Marsh left his empty tin beside Drummer Boy and found the Whiteshields were not too far from his own space. Having claimed a patch of bare earth with some decent protection from rocks to their south, they had dug a series of fighting holes that could be easily accessed from one another and interlocking fields of fire towards the southern half of the draw. When he stepped up to the first hole, he found everybody was asleep except for Sergeant Clivvy, Rowley, Merton, and Yeardley. Rowley was fiddling with her Vox-caster with a great deal of enthusiasm. Checking the handset, she grinned and looked at Marsh Silas.
“Staff Sergeant, I’m listening to after-action reports from the far northern front!”
Marsh knelt at the edge of her hole and rested his arms on his knees.
“I pray it is good news.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Keep your voice down, now,” he said with an earnest chuckle. Rowley’s eyes popped a little, clapped her hand over her mouth, then removed it to hold one finger up to her lips.
“Yes, sir,” she hissed, her finger still in front of her mouth. Marsh chuckled again and slid into Clivvy’s hole.
“Staff Sergeant, we’re in a good position to support the second Heavy Bolter team,” she said as she moved to the side of the hole. “Our visibility regarding the southern approach is very good. Verticality is also good; we can stage a reverse-slope defense against this ridge. We’ve taken into account that enemy sharpshooters upon the other could fire down on us, so we’ve moved logs and rocks on our flank. Rayden and Webley will fetch more after assisting the picter, sir.”
“Splendid work,” Marsh said. Clivvy was proving to be an effective squad leader. She showed drive, initiative, and a refusal to abuse her authority. But she was comfortable enough to delegate tasks to her subordinates. Marsh had told her a good leader both acted and ordered; this ensured the squad remained engaged and remembered she was their commander, not a caregiver.
Rowley too was following her squad leader’s example and sought to further push herself. Her Vox-caster was the key to that. She continued to familiarize herself with the equipment so that she would be more than ready when it came time to use it. Marsh’s eyes then drifted to Yeardley, who had finished cleaning his grenade launcher. He was drawing something in a leather bound ledger. The sketch took shape and turned out to be two middle-aged Cadian officers, both wearing low-peaked caps. Despite their rigid postures, they were smiling.
“Mama and papa,” Yeardley said, noticing Marsh’s staring. “I used to have a pict of them before they were sent to a faraway world, but it got lost. I memorized it enough to draw it, for it is all I have. I know not whether they live or lie beneath the ground, but I pray to the Emperor for their safety.” Yeardley smiled sadly, then tucked the booklet back in his rucksack. “I won’t let it distract me.”
“Worry not. This is a time in which you may hark back to family,” Marsh said. Merton was attracted by this statement and looked up from his bayonet and whetstone.
“Sir, it is quite difficult not to think of the enemy out there as we rest. I must say, and although I am not a coward, I am ashamed to say I am quite afraid. Does that make me a poor Guardsman?”
“I thought the same for a great deal of time. But a good friend o’ mine taught me to accept your fear and act regardless o’ it—that makes a mighty fine Guardsman.” Marsh chuckled, remembering Barlocke fondly. “Aye, any servant o’ the Emperor can do good that way. It ain’t easy. Nothin’ ever is but if you can do it once, you can do it again, and again, until the mission is complete.”
You’ve become rather sagely, Silvanus. ‘Some of your wisdom has truly bit into my bones,’ Marsh thought, grinning. Yeardley, Merton, Rowley, and Clivvy all smiled a little. The platoon sergeant jostled Yeardley a little and nodded at Merton. “You all fought well during the last firefight. Maintain that spirit in battle and you’ll be a Shock Trooper soon enough.”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”
In any other circumstance, Marsh Silas would have departed and made his report to Lieutenant Hyram. But he cast another look at Yeardly, appearing very small in the hole. His knees were pulled to his chest, his overcoat was drawn over his legs, and his crop of soft blonde Kasr Polaris hair fell over his eyes. Marsh simply stared at the boy soldier for a time. He didn’t quite look like a Guardsman or even a Whiteshield for that matter. Yeardley seemed too small both in height and weight. Even after all the physical exercise and strength training, he hadn’t seemed to bulk up at all. Marsh wondered if he appeared in such a way when he was fourteen years of age in the 540th Youth Regiment, remembering family and home.
“Tell me, lad, what is Kasr Polaris like these days?”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“You’ve not been back, Staff Sergeant?”
“I left but twice. Once for the Month of Making and the other was...” Marsh paused and smiled. “Do the young ones still go out to fetch the seaweed from the sand when the tide rolls away?”
Yeardley beamed brightly. If he possessed any doubts about Marsh’s home Kasr they were truly quashed then.
“Aye! But the factorum front has grown along the seaside so you have to walk further out than ever before. It is not so bad, though.”
“We used to have ours over rice.”
“Us too!” Yeardley laughed. “Once our training period for the day ended all the boys in the barracks would rush to collect some. The cook was a lil’ Ratling fellow and he used to give the boy who collected the most seaweed a block o’ choc as a reward.”
Scenes of Marsh’s youth—clinging to his mother’s hand as they journeyed to the waterfront, standing in the wet gray sand, bending over to pluck seaweed—came flooding back. Many families or trainees from the barracks came out like that. Food was often so bland they searched for anything to add flavor to their meals. Even rice, a delicious rarity, sometimes needed an extra touch. Although his grandsires of the Cross name were rather wealthy, his mother insisted on collecting the seaweed rather than going to one of the local eateries to purchase food. Having lived a soldier’s life, Marsh knew that was born from her experiences in the ranks. Guardsmen had few possessions and much of what they needed was not provided by the Astra Militarum. Whatever a soldier didn’t have, he bought it, made it, found it, and occasionally, stole it. Such habits were difficult to shake. But his mother also said going out to find something built character and shaped one’s resolve. Relying on ‘establishments,’ as she referred to them with a fair amount of disdain, did nothing to prepare a young soldier for the grim realities of war.
For a long while after the majority of Bloody Platoon fell asleep, Marsh stayed up and chatted with young Yeardley. The two shared many stories; avoiding Commissars while looking for extra rations, staying up after curfew to practice maintenance on the M36, successes and failures during war games, and the hard but happy life youths experienced in a place like Kasr Polaris.
“Each time my father returned home, he would blend in with a crowd of other officers. He would appear to pass by our home, one o’ them big fortified manses the nobility has, but stop just shy o’ passin’ by. Then he’d come runnin’ up to the steps. Got me every single time. What about you lad, did you...” Marsh looked over at Yeardley. The Whiteshield had fallen asleep, his head leaning against the wall of the fighting hole. After regarding him for a moment, Marshs smiled and tugged Yeardly’s overcoat over his chin.
Marsh Silas climbed out of the hole and surveyed the Whiteshields once again. All of them were sleeping. Webley and Rayden had returned and assisted Clivvy in fortifying the position. They were curled up in the bottom of the hole. There was nothing under the squad leader’s head; noticing her gloves were not on her hands, he took these, gently lifted her head, and slid them underneath. Somehow, Graeme removed his blanket while slumbering so the platoon sergeant put it back on. Tattersall, Leander, and Merton were sleeping in the same hole. Side by side, they looked like three wooden planks beside one another. Marsh adjusted the blanket over them so each one was covered equally. Rowley was still awake but just barely. Her head drooped as she continued to listen to the handset. Dropping down into her hole, he gently took it from her hand and hooked it back on the Vox-caster. “Get some sleep, lass.”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” she said sleepily, her eyelids fluttering. Marsh helped her lay down, laid her head on her rucksack, and drew a blanket over her. Climbing out of the hole, he walked to the center of the draw and surveyed the entire position. All but the sentries were asleep, tucked away in their nooks and holes, between bushes, under trees, up among the rocks, or on the ground in camouflaged positions. A cool, gentle wind blew over the draw. Snowflakes fluttered down. Hands on his hips, Marsh smiled and just took it in. ‘One day Barlocke,’ he thought, ‘I’ll have my own platoon. I’ll keep them together, just like this, for this is how beginnings are made, methinks. In small, quiet places, where you sit, think, remember, plan, and live alongside others. Throne, I will do it.’ I know you will, dear Silvanus.
He marched over to his own position, climbed onto his sleeping bag, and drew a blanket over him. Planting his large rucksack against the tree, he leaned back against it like it was a feather pillow. Already, the snow was accumulating on ground uncovered by tree branches. It was quiet and cold, and his sleeping back was warm. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard approaching feet. Carstensen appeared, her orange locks in disarray and her face still smudged. Without speaking, she came over and sat beside him. For a moment, their eyes locked pleasantly. Marsh lifted his blanket and she slid in beside him. He made room against the rucksack for her. Nose to nose, breath washing over one another’s faces, the pair fell asleep.
***
Marsh felt something cool on his cheek. He opened his eyes partially and checked his wrist-chrono. It was around sunset. Looking up, the sky was grayish-orange. Snow still fell lightly but the wind had shifted. A great deal swept underneath the branches and coated the blanket he and Carstensen were under. Despite the layer of snow, he felt comfortable and the Junior Commissar was very warm beside him. Turning to look at her, he found her nestled against the rucksack with her head on Marsh’s shoulder. One hand was drawn near her cheek while the other was on the platoon sergeant’s chest. Her mouth was open slightly and her breath came out in small white puffs.
As much as he wanted to stay, he knew it was nearly time to examine the position. Carefully, he extricated himself from her grasp and slid out from under the blanket. He tucked it back into place, kissed her forehead, put on his watch cap, collected his M36, and wandered up the draw. Coming through the snowy murk was Lieutenant Hyram.
“Ah, I was just coming for you,” he said, then looked around. “Where is the Junior Commissar?”
“My position,” Marsh answered. “She came to...ask me a question and decided to stay there instead.”
Hyram, wearing a donated watch cap, eyed him warily.
“Well, it’s time for your watch. Choose two of the Whiteshields and relieve Northmore and Fleming up on the east ridge. We move out in one hour.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hyram turned on his heel and marched back into gray gloom. As Marsh watched him go, Barlocke’s fragment hummed. A vibrating sensation passed through his mind. I think he knows. You’re not a very good liar. Marsh grumbled as he turned around. “I convinced the Lord Inquisitor there was no letter, did I not?” he hissed. He kept quiet, for everyone was still sleeping. Hm, fair.
Marsh approached the Whiteshields and knelt next to Clivvy’s hole. She was still curled up. He reached down and shook her gently. “Rouse yourself, troop. Grab Webley and let’s go.”
He waited a few paces away. A few minutes later the two Whiteshields appeared, groggy and dirty. Both of them donned black knit caps, tugged them low over their ears, and checked their weapons. The trio went to the softest slope leading up the eastern ridge and climbed up. Some parts were steeper and they had to dig their heels in or grasp exposed roots to pull themselves upwards.
When Marsh finally scaled the top, he saw a blur of movement. Northmore spun around and brought his M36 to bear on him. “Easy, Shock Trooper,” Marsh whispered.
“Sorry, Marsh Silas.”
“No movement?”
“None.”
“You’re relieved.”
Fleming and Northmore waited for the two Whiteshields to crawl to the top before descending. The observation post was on the crest of the ridge along a row of scrub brushes, a fallen tree, and a larger boulder on the right flank. Marsh took the left while Clivvy slithered to the center and Webley planted herself on the right. Everyone lay prone and situated themselves as comfortably as they could on the uneven terrain, rocks, sticks, and snow.
Tugging out his magnoculars, Marsh scanned the landscape. The hinterland was covered with a blanket of snow. Even in the low light of the setting sun, the snowfall would provide a wonderful outline to anything or anyone moving across the countryside. After Marsh finished his initial scan, he lowered his scope and looked at the others. “Keep an eye out for small movements; low crawling, ducking, dashing. You see somethin’, you call it. An’ don’t fall back ta sleep.”
“Yes, sir,” they both said.
Keeping watch was a boring detail but Marsh was used to it after so many years. It was another occasion, like his evening showers, which gave him some privacy. Of course, with Clivvy and Webley present he didn’t have it exactly but he didn’t mind. After sleeping for so long with Carstensen beside him he was in a rather good mood.
But the two Whiteshields weren’t. Each time he looked over at them, he found their expression tired and disinterested in their duty. Ten minutes dragged without any kind of movement. Not even the birds stirred from their perches in faraway trees.
“Is this to be a Guardsman’s life?” Webley eventually asked. “Training, long marches, looking at nothing, and occasional combat?”
“I am quite certain your instructors said you’d plunge right into battle for the Imperium as soon as you left the barracks,” Marsh whispered. “They all say that because they want you to be ready for anything. Battle is always upon Cadia’s shores but think o’ it as the wind. Some days, the wind blows very hard and lasts from dawn till dusk. Other days, you might have some little winds all throughout the day. On some, the wind is terrific but doesn’t last very long. Wind can be gentle, too, and sometimes a day comes when there ain’t no wind at all.”
Marsh looked over at the pair, who were looking back at him blankly. He smiled warmly. “You’ll get another taste o’ combat soon enough. You’ll be ready for it. You’ll learn to appreciate these quiet times, though. Look for a fight long enough and it’ll find you.” The two Whiteshields nodded.
He was like them once, wondering when he would have his chance. Granted, he and his friends didn’t have to wait long before they were thrust in the fray. He wondered if he should tell them it was going to get bad, but upon seeing their refreshed faces he decided not to. He was confident they understood the coming battles were going to be glorious but gruesome affairs.
Just as he raised his magnoculars again, Webley faced him.
“Staff Sergeant, for a while, I thought the Lieutenant and everyone hated us. But they’ve come through for us and treat us as brother soldiers. I just want to do my part, not just for the Emperor, but for them. They make me want to become a better soldier,” Webley said.
“Lieutenant Hyram has a lot on his shoulders; comes with having a big mind,” Marsh Silas joked. “I have a small one, so I tend not to worry so much.” Well, that’s not strictly true. ‘Shut up.’ Have it your way. “ “The platoon leader is trusted with the lives of many troops and he is expected to send those troops into battle. It is a burden all leaders bear although some more lightly than others. For Hyram, it is heavy, for he knows what must be done but he does not want to waste lives. That was the cause for his initial antagonism.”
He pressed his hands together and leaned forward. “He has never hated you. He just doesn’t want you to die, that’s all. You’re not as experienced as the others so he has to mind ya, just like I mind ya. Me and Hyram, you see, we’re a couple o’ minders.”
“And the Junior Commissar, too?” Webley asked.
“Oh no, you best hope she never has to mind you; if she has to, that means you’ve done somethin’ wrong.” This he said as a mild joke, but he said it quietly. If Carstensen heard, she would have been most upset.
Marsh put a hand on each of their shoulders and smiled kindly. “Nobody here ever hated you. They just didn’t want you to get hurt. You two have a lot in common with Hyram, even if you are just the squad leader and the assistant. You’ve got people depending on you for leadership and guidance. You can’t just give that to them when times are easy. No matter how tough things get, stick with’em. Teach’em things.”
He leaned back, his smile growing a little more somber. “To teach, you must be a student. My teacher bothered me to no end, talked me up until the late hours, and made answering questions difficult. Sometimes, he posed questions and ideas that simply didn’t have answers, just to get me thinking. We quarreled, sometimes. Other times, we just let our minds meander.” He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. Snowflakes landed on his brow, collected in his eye sockets, and clung to his beard. Behind the thick, gray clouds were swathes of pink-orange sunlight. “Maybe we don’t exist...” he murmured, his violet eyes lost in the beauty above him.
When he looked back down at the pair, their faces were stoic but their eyes glittered resolutely. They did indeed understand him.
“Marsh Silas,” Bullard said over the micro-bead. “I’ve got movement, northwest.”
Without thinking, the platoon sergeant slid down the ridge, ambled across the draw, and scurried up the opposite ridge. By the time he arrived, Hyram was already at Bullard and Hitch’s position. Sliding in next to them, he raised his magnoculars. Bullard read off the bearing and Marsh registered a little dark shape, then two, and then three. Eventually, he counted ten figures heading north. Their clothing was ragged but their movement was experienced; they knew the lay of the land and moved comfortably through it. Constantly, they turned their heads and looked around. Moving at a half-crouch, they used the terrain for concealment as best they could but were forced into the open often. As they moved, their direction changed and once they were parallel with the draw they shifted directly north.
Hyram lowered his own magnoculars and jotted the notes down in his logbook.
“We’ve got them,” he said with rugged triumph “Marsh Silas, get everyone ready. As soon as the hour is up, we’re moving out.”
“Sir, we might lose’em,” Bullard said. “The trail could go cold, even with all this snow. Permission for Hitch and myself to tail’em? That way we can relay intelligence back to you and with just us two, we’ll keep a very low profile.”
Hyram considered it for a few moments. His violet eyes met Marsh’s.
“You’re going with them,” he ordered. Marsh grinned; he hoped Hyram was going to say that. “You’ll need a Voxman and a fifth man. Take your pick of the lot.”
“Rowley for Voxman and Yeardley for security.”
“Fine. Be quick and safe about this. You have a map? Good. Take only what you need. Go,” Hyram ordered.
Marsh, Bullard, and Hitch hurried back into the draw. Each one of them deposited their excess wargear at their stations, and prepared to set out. Marsh fetched the two Whiteshields, who were both surprised but excited to be taken out. Some of the other Guardsmen in Bloody Platoon promised to carry their gear, a few quick goodbyes and standing orders were shared, and the five-man party set out. Bullard took point, followed by Rowley, Yeardley, Hitch, and Marsh took up the rearguard. As he ushered them out, he glanced back at his own position in the draw. Carstensen was just rising from the sleeping bag, still blinking sleep from her eyes. When he saw her, he paused involuntarily. His lips twitched into a smile and he waved a little bit. She did not reciprocate, nodding instead.
Catching up to the team, Marsh exited the draw, labored up the slope, and was soon on level ground. Everyone kept very low as they scurried to a berm. Bullard didn’t immediately lead them north; instead, he led them west, gently changing direction the further they strayed from the camp. In case they were followed, he did not want to leave a trail that led directly back to the others. Stopping to confer with Marsh Silas with the map, they were able to pick up the trail and travel parallel to it, staying within sight of the tracks but not treading on them directly.
Again, they pressed on but only for a short distance. Bullard flashed his fist, bringing them to a stop. Crawling to the top, he peered down his long-las scope and checked the area. With a wave, he led them on. They hurried over the berm, keeping low as they darted to the next hill. Booted feet thudded and crunched in the snow. Ragged breath passed through their lips, small puffs of white appearing in front of their tactical hoods.
It was a thrilling clandestine pursuit. Marsh enjoyed every second of it. Although Rowley was struggling under the weight of her Vox-caster, she kept pace and didn’t complain. Yeardley pressed on doggedly, while the two marksmen handled themselves very well. Bullard and Hitch were attuned to moving through the land quietly and stealthily. Every movement they made was fluid and experienced. Marsh and his pupils emulated them in every way.
The trail they left behind was slowly disappearing in the snow. Fresh flakes were already filling the boot prints.
“We may have to pull back if we lose the trail,” Marsh whispered when they stopped to ensure they weren’t spotted again. Bullard was at the top of the rise, half his body over the crest. When he finished looking, he slithered down and shook his head.
“No, I got’em now. We ain’t gonna lose’em.”
Bullard and Hitch were excellent trackers on top of their primary duties. They could read the terrain far better than Marsh Silas or any other man in the platoon could. He trusted them and didn’t dispute their claim. After crossing the rise, they proceeded for another five hundred meters, stopping only when they needed to check their surroundings. As quick as they were, night was falling quickly. Fresh, dark gray clouds filled the gaps and the fleeting sunlight was snuffed out. Plunged into darkness, the team pressed on.
Eventually, when they were well over a kilometer away from the draw, Bullard halted them again. They came to a series of bluffs, one of which stretched in a semicircle to the front and right flanks. Bullard crawled to the crest, remained only for a moment, and then carefully crept halfway down. Marsh could just make him out. The sniper shouldered his long-las, then made a looping gesture with his hand, pointing up and over the crest of the bluff. Then, he used his two primary fingers to make a walking motion on his opposite palm. Finally, he held up all ten of his fingers, make a fist, then opened it, closed it, and opened it. He repeated it ten times.
Marsh’s heart beat faster. Pointing with the flat of his hand, he ordered everyone to the top. They crawled up, side by side, moving as quietly. At the top, he gazed through his magnoculars. Across the bluff was a wide valley marked only by a few rocks and scrub bushes. Walking through it was a column of heretics, clad in the same apparel as the scouting party. The scouts were just joining the others, halting briefly at the head to confer with whoever was leading.
Taking the opportunity, Marsh counted them out for himself. He recounted again and then a third time. One hundred fifty heretics were heading to the southeast—right towards the draw.
“Rowley, call it in,” Marsh Silas ordered.