Cadia was besieged by a myriad of foes. From the horrifying and abominable dregs produced by the Eye of Terror to foul xenos war parties attempting to make their mark on the Imperium’s gate. In response, the Cadian Shock Troops not only had to be zealous in their faith, metered in their emotions, and courageous in their hearts, they needed a diverse array of combat qualifications. Laying an ambush was not how the average Cadian preferred to engage their foe but it was a tactic they learned nonetheless. While they would never be as proficient as other specialized regiments, against ragtag hinterland heretics, Bloody Platoon would be more than capable.
The party of heretics moved slowly across the land, allowing Marsh Silas and his small party to rejoin Bloody Platoon quickly. Everything was quiet but hurried as the Guardsmen moved into position along the path of the incoming enemies. Despite the darkness, Hyram chose the ground well: another shallow draw with a steep, extended ridge on the southern side and a crop of tightly packed jagged rocks on the north side. It was an advantageous position with two, nearly impassable topographical entities funneling the heretics through the comparably passable draw. Although there were still boulders and vegetation within the narrow passage, it was a far easier path than traversing the steeper obstacles.
Marsh Silas joined Hyram as he individually placed every soldier and team in the platoon. First, he ordered Walmsley Major and Minor, along with 3rd Squad, to take up a position fifty meters into the draw, which placed them about three-quarters of the way through. Forming a line behind a fallen log and some rocks, they camouflaged their position with bushes, crushed leaves, and branches still laden with needles. The remainder of the platoon were arrayed along the top of the southern ridge overlooking the path. In the center, Sudworth and Lowe entrenched their Autocannon while Albert and Brownlow erected their Heavy Bolter at the end of the ridge. This ensured automatic fire at the front, center, and rear of the enemy column. Olhouser and Snyder, planted their mortar twenty meters back from the ridge. After gauging the distance, they zeroed in so they could drop shells directly into it.
Grenadiers were placed in decent perches so as to scatter the enemy and line Guardsmen were evenly displaced between them. Because the enemy lacked vehicles, Foster, Ledford, Knaggs, and Fletcher were forced to desert their equipment and join the line as lasriflemen. The long-las team, Bullard and Hitch, climbed to the highest point of the ridge. It was nothing more than a pile of stones, moved there by some great geographic cataclysm millennia ago. Forming a peak, it provided a three-hundred sixty degree view of the landscape while still allowing them to look down into the draw. With the advantage of high ground and long-range optics, the pair kept a lookout for the approaching enemy.
Sergeant Clivvy and the Whiteshields were placed at the western end of the line with Albert and Brownlow. In the event the enemy were not cut down in the initial fusillade and attempted to escape, the Whiteshields were ordered to rapidly descend the slope and cut them off. Such a role resulted in very close action, often coming down to hand to hand combat. It was a tremendously honorable task and Marsh Silas was very proud Hyram chose them for the duty. He could tell they were nervous but excited. This act would all but prove the training they received was worthwhile.
Hyram, Marsh Silas, and Carstensen went up and down the line multiple times to ensure everybody was in position. Such veterans did not require strict supervision; they were well-versed in their trade. Troopers placed fragmentation grenades and charge packs on top of rocks beside them or even on top of the ones they crouched behind. It made their ammunition and munitions much quicker to access than digging through their cartridge belts. Everyone fixed bayonets without orders, it being second nature to do so. Many took out their trench knives and planted them in the earth. It was a precaution in case it came down to melee combat although everyone was confident it would not come down to that.
Bloody Platoon was ready within minutes. Noise discipline was ordered. Hyram and Marsh Silas crawled to the center of the position near Sudworth and Lowe. Both crew men carefully inspected the Autocannon one last time before checking the feed. Marsh looked past them to see everyone ranging and zeroing their sights on the ground below. When they were finished attuning their optics, everyone dropped down.
Marsh rolled onto his back and looked at Hyram. The Lieutenant briefly inspected his Data-slate one more time before tucking it into one of his pouches. He reached over and tapped Marsh on the shoulder.
“Get yourself over to the Whiteshields. I want you with them.”
Marsh Silas knew his presence would stabilize his pupils. If Hyram was worried they would act rashly before the order was given or give into fear, Marsh did not know. But they were still young, had little experience, and other Guardsmen were depending on them to keep their heads. It was just a precaution, not an example of doubt.
“Yes sir,” Marsh Silas said. He turned to leave but Hyram snatched his webbing, halting him in his tracks. The Lieutenant brought him close. The platoon sergeant expected his commanding officer to bequeath one final order. Instead, he smiled faintly.
“Be careful, friend.”
Instantly, Marsh Silas smiled and then tapped Hyram on the shoulder.
“Yes, sir.”
He scurried down the line, passing many low, crouching forms. Walking past him was Junior Commissar Carstensen. It was dark but her imposing figure and commanding stride were quite noticeable. As they passed, right shoulder to right shoulder, Marsh reached out and took her unarmored hand. Her fingers slipped easily between hers. She stopped quickly and turned halfway. Knowing he could not speak aloud, Marsh raised Carstensen’s hand and kissed the back of it. Her face was barely visible and he wished it wasn’t. All she did was squeeze his hand before sliding her hand out of his. With that separation, Marsh Silas was once more focused on the task.
Sliding in among the Whiteshields, he found them evenly dispersed around the second Heavy Bolter team. Split into fireteams of five men each, they occupied positions on either flank of the big gun. All were dug in and kept all necessary wargear in arm’s reach. Clivvy was the only one not behind a rock. She was darting between each of the Whiteshields and whispering directions in their ears. Marsh decided not to assist her and allowed the squad leader to conduct her own affairs. He settled next to Yeardley who was crouching on one knee behind a moderately sized rock. When he looked at Marsh, his child-like smile split his face.
The platoon sergeant reached over and grasped the young man’s shoulder. “Let’s make Kasr Polaris proud this night.”
“For Kasr Polaris.”
Marsh zeroed his own sights and then hunkered down. He did not like having to rely on another individual to keep lookout in these scenarios, but he trusted Bullard and Hitch. Watching for the enemy passed the time and made the waiting period far less tedious. Keeping oneself preoccupied kept the nerves suppressed. He felt that familiar anxiousness which dogged him since his own days in the Whiteshields. Such a reaction was physical and only the most devout and brave of the Astra Militarum could withstand it. How he wished he were a noble Astartes at times like these! The Emperor’s finest warriors, who had His blood in their veins, felt no fear. What a liberation it would be to not be afraid. Although he was acquainted with such a freedom, it was rare and surfaced in the strangest circumstances.
Breathe, my dear Silvanus, breathe. Barlocke’s voice was so soothing it felt like a warm hand passing across his forehead. The platoon sergeant shut his eyes and allowed the voice to flow through his mind, filling it as warm water would a basin. ‘I’m alright, truly,’ he thought, ‘I can reach that place of bravery on my own.’ Yes, you can, but let me help you now. Breathe deeply and listen. To your left and your right are comrades, stalwart and strong. Marsh looked to his right side and smiled sadly. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a shape kneel beside him. A long, flowing trench coat hung from their shoulders, a wide-brimmed hat was low on their brow, and an eager smile tugged at their lips. It lingered only for a moment, dissipating like hot breath on a cool morning. The wind carried the image away and Marsh felt great longing.
“How I wish you were with us, old friend.”
“Did you say something, Staff Sergeant?”
“Just uttering a prayer, in a certain fashion I suppose,” Marsh whispered back to Yeardley with a chuckle. “Control your breathing, son, and don’t fire too fast. Aim slow, aim true.”
Marsh changed position so he was laying down with his shoulders and head against the rock. He held his M36 across his chest and steadily drummed his fingers against the side. Looking up, he observed a break in the clouds. Through it, white stars glimmered peaceably in the purple-black veil. A moment later, the wind blew and another cloud covered the break. His fingers stopped drumming and he gripped his weapon with purpose.
He waited as patiently as possible but each passing minute felt like a century. Time seemed to slow down, as if Cadia’s own rotation were coming to a halt. Such a feeling was curiously alluring just as it was frustrating. Such was the match between him and his nerves as it had been since the first shot was fired a decade ago. But he breathed deeply and shut his eyes. He felt the presence of his comrades around him. In his heart, he felt the Emperor and the entire Imperium. Like his brothers, his Overlord and his people needed him to act. The fear dissipated, and at once, he felt ready.
“I have eyes on the enemy,” Bullard announced emotionlessly over the comms. “They’re approaching at the quick-step, over.”
“All Primus One stations,” Hyram’s voice followed, “hold fire until I fire the first shot. Then, show them the Emperor’s fury.”
Marsh Silas changed position, slowly turning over onto his stomach. Then, he rose to a crouch and peeked over the edge of the rock. Below, at the base of the ridge’s slope, the heretics streamed into the draw. They move in a quick, undisciplined, and comfortable fashion. Nobody was expecting an ambush all the way here in territory they considered their own. Skirmishers were not deployed on the flanks, there was no element of leadership at the head of the column, and no rearguard. With his eyes having adjusted to the darkness, Marsh could make out further details. Although the core shapes of the individual heretics remained naught but shadows, the worn edges of their ragged clothes were clear. Some wore boots ripped from the feet of dead Guardsmen, a sight which disgusted and infuriated Marsh Silas. Others were barefoot or bore makeshift shoes; some had tied strips of rubber to their feet. None seemed to notice the cold or the snowflakes sprinkling from the sky.
Marsh looked both ways, up and down the line. Guardsmen’s shoulders rose as they brought their weapons to bear on the enemy. At the center, one form stood directly up. Hyram took the flag from Babcock, drove it into a crevice between two stones, and fired a single shot from his M36. The lasbolt struck a heretic at the edge of the column, blowing his arm off from the shoulder. “For the Emperor!” Hyram bellowed.
“Bloody Platoon!” Guardsmen cheered.
Multicolored lasbots and tracer rounds lit up the night. Behind them, the mortar went off and a flare exploded in the sky. Three lights fluttered back down to Cadian soil. Below, the enemy were blinded and illuminated. Heretics fanned out in every direction, running straight into the maw of the Walmsley brothers’ Heavy Bolter. Streams of bolt shells swept back and forth across the draw. Heretics lost their legs and toppled over. Knee caps were blown out and feet were severed. Red, blue, and golden lasbots from the men on the ridge blew heads open, burst stomachs, and seared flesh. Below, heretics screamed in a rabid frenzy. Some threw themselves behind cover and returned fire with their own lasguns. Others charged up the slope, but it was too treacherous to climb quickly. Grenadiers fired straight down into the draw, blowing heretics to pieces and splintering their squads. Guardsmen lobbed grenades into the draw or rolled them down the slope. Mortar shells dropped with extreme accuracy; rounds whistled, struck, and sent up columns of earth, snow, and body parts. Even after the flares went out, the mortar rounds kept falling precisely.
Guardsmen cheered and raised prayers to the Emperor. Whooping, roaring, shaking their fists, loading fresh charge packs, and hurling insults at the enemy, they poured on the fire. In a matter of moments, half the enemy column was wiped out. Bodies fell over and on top of one another. Some were struck by so many lasbolts they fell apart. But in the light of the lasbolts and the tracers, one could see their faces. In acts of defiance, the heretics removed the sack hoods and masks they wore. Each was deformed, disheveled, and inhuman in every regard. Violet eyes turned blood red, fangs jutted from their mouths, and spikes were lodged in their brows.
These were the faces of warriors. None showed fear, just rage and hate towards the ambushers. Their red eyes glowed brighter, like coals having completely ignited. Some threw down their weapons and just shrieked in defiance. Their cries were piercing, rising above the battle din and searing Marsh’s eardrums, but he kept fighting.
Unable to break the ambush or advance, the surviving heretics, numbering around thirty or so, conducted a fighting withdrawal. “Clivvy! Now’s your time!” Hyram shouted over the micro-bead. “Cut them off, they’re running, they’re going to get away, go!”
“Yeardley, one shell, fragmentation!” Clivvy shouted. Yeardley stood up and fired his grenade launcher. The shell exploded among the heretics, wounding and scattering them. “With me, Whiteshields!” Clivvy shouted. “Bloody Platoon!”
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All ten Whiteshields jumped out of their fighting holes as tracers flew by their heads. Their war cry was shrill and valiant. It was an inspiring display of unity and bravery. Marsh, his heart soaring, leaped out of the pit and ran with them. Together, they threw themselves against the enemy. Marsh bayoneted one in the belly, withdrew the blade, and slashed the heretic’s throat. Another who attempted to rush him with a knife received a crack across the jaw from Marsh’s M36. Before he finished the foe, someone tackled him from the opposite side. Losing his grip on his weapon, Marsh tussled with the assailant. They rolled over each other several times until Marsh stopped on his back. A rusty dagger point fell to his face and he caught his opponent’s wrist.
Above him, the heretic growled menacingly, as if he were a snarling beast. The blade drew closer. Marsh pushed back with all his might. He struggled to kick and flail his legs to try and throw the attacker off him. But the heretic adjusted, placing more of his weight on the platoon sergeant’s legs. Snickering, the heretic smiled.
“Where is your Emperor now?” he screeched. Marsh saw movement behind the heretic. Webley ran towards them while Merton raised his bayonet.
“Right behind you,” Marsh boasted. Webley swung her leg back and kicked with all her might. The blow landed in the heretic’s ribs and knocked him off. Roaring, Merton then drove his bayonet into the man’s mouth. Two others attempted to overtake him, but Soames and Rayden shot down one of the attackers while Merton knocked the other to the ground. Mercilessly, he demolished the heretic’s skull with his M36’s stock.
Before Marsh could draw his own trench knife someone grabbed him from behind. He raised his arm to protect his throat, expecting a knife. Instead, the heretic restrained him and kept him on his knees. Three heretics sprang from cover with knives and raced towards him. Marsh fought as hard as he could, cracking the back of his head against the heretic’s forehead but their grip was like a vise. When the enemy was almost upon him, the Whiteshields roared and charged. Clivvy, Graeme, Yeardley, Rowley, and Tattersall threw themselves on the three assailants. Beating them down with fists and M36 blows, they transitioned to their blades and ripped them apart. A few heretics, having finally broken, ran past them out of the draw.
Leander, Merton, Rayden, and Soames formed a line, raised their lasguns, and fired a crimson fusillade that lit up the night. The surviving heretics were quickly dispatched, falling into the snow. Gunshots faded and then Hyram cried, ‘cease firing!’ All was suddenly quiet save for the ragged breathing of the Guardsmen. A head count was conducted; squad leaders policed their troopers and happily reported there were no casualties. The only wounds Guardsmen reported were grazes or a bit of shrapnel that sliced a shoulder. Everyone wanted to cheer but Hyram hushed them.
Half the platoon was put on watch while the other half descended into the draw with lamp packs, rail-mounted flashlights, and headlamps. Around their feet were the grisly remains of the heretics. Blood splattered the disturbed snow, rocks, and trees. Spilled intestines and severed limbs littered the ground. Warm bodies emitted steam from their pulsing, sucking, leaking wounds. A few moans rose up and were silenced by bayonet thrusts.
The Whiteshields gathered up near Marsh Silas. Before he could speak, Hyram came marching down the draw with his head cocked and shoulders hunched. The Lieutenant walked right up to them, grabbed Clivvy by her shoulders, and embraced her. Stunned, the young sergeant remained very still, then raised her arms. When Hyram stepped back, he was beaming with pride!
“Well done!” he said. He went to each Whiteshield, clapping their shoulders. “I’m truly proud of you. It was all worthy of the Eagle Ordinary. And you, Webley, I’m bumping you up to lance corporal! You’ve all fought your first close action and gave it your all. That is the stuff which makes Shock Troopers. Give, me, more!” he said.
“Sir, we will, sir!” the Whiteshields replied enthusiastically. Hyram whirled around and jostled Marsh by armor’s collar.
“The same for you, Senior Staff Sergeant! If these are the Whiteshields you can forge, by the Emperor, I will get you another ten! More, I say, give me more!”
“Lieutenant,” Yeardley suddenly said. Hyram and Marsh went over to the boy, who looked down shyly. “I was scared stiff, sir.”
Marsh grabbed his shoulder and jostled him so he looked back up.
“I know, and it’s alright, for we were all scared. But you did not hesitate; you reached within yourself and found that place. All soldiers must look deep within and equalize with destiny and duty. That is what you, myself, and everyone else have done. Do that for the next battle, and the next, and the one after that. That is what you must do to be a warrior.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Yeardley replied.
“I can appreciate the jubilant mood and self-congratulations of the platoon,” Carstensen cut in. “Although I believe it is a part of my duty to remind the Lieutenant and platoon sergeant that, despite this successful ambush, the war is not over yet.”
“Ah, the Junior Commissar is right,” Hyram hastily said. “Fan out and search the bodies for intelligence. Maps, logs, communiques, anything that can map out their movements and bases.”
The platoon dispersed. Bodies were prodded with bayonets, coat pockets were rifled, and pockets were emptied. Men carefully avoided the blood and finished any wounded heretics they came across. As they worked, they murmured prayers of cleanliness and protection against the unholy, unsanitary bodies they touched. It became a quiet but rhythmic song.
Marsh sifted through the contents of rucksacks and haversacks with his trench knife. He did not wish to unwittingly touch some artifact or token of the Archenemy. You are wise, Silvanus. Such objects may sow the great sickness in you, that vile corruption which turns one away from the Emperor and the Imperium.
“Like all them kids we tried to save back then?” Marsh whispered as he opened another kit. Yes. “And like Amilios?” He paused when the fragment did not respond. “Barlocke?” Amilios…was different. His disenchantment with the Imperium and our very dreams to heal led him down a darker path. His own doubt and apathy for goodness caused him to go astray. If I had been more keen, I might have saved him. It is why I am so relieved to see you spread brotherhood like this. Empathy leads to kinship between men, and to bring these Whiteshields into the fold with so much love, gives me great cheer and confidence you will continue to do so.
Marsh Silas smiled. “Yes, well, I am trying.” Trying is all a man can do, is it not? “Aye,” Marsh replied as he searched through another bag. Apologies, I know you are working. I know I tend to ramble on and on. “It is not a bad thing to dream,” the platoon sergeant whispered to his friend. “With this, we’ll keep these Whiteshields alive and get the regiment to teach’em the way I have. Maybe then, I’ll make officer, and then I can move on to help more folks. But first,” he paused and sighed, upending a bag. Moldy bread chunks, soiled clothes, and dirty cartridges tumbled out. “I have to deal with this rubbish.”
The next rucksack he examined had similar items in it, but then he found a water skin. Marsh Silas was about to discard it, but he stopped when he realized the skin was not leather but a clear material. Holding it in the light of his red headlamp, he examined the dirty water. Sediment collected in the bottom of the water skin; it was slick and gray.
“Honeycutt?” A moment later, the senior medic appeared and crouched beside him. “You have to keep an eye on our water supply, make sure it doesn’t get contaminated and such. What do ya make o’ this junk?”
Honeycutt examined the bag from multiple sides. Afterwards, he crouched in front of Marsh Silas and held up two fingers.
“There’s two places where this water could be collected from. I doubt these fools have a purification system or tablets out here. The rainy season is over and melting snow won’t produce as much water as they need. So, they either gathered it from the surface of a pond up here among the rocks between the coast and the northern flats, or they dug their own well. I’m partial to the second one. That gray goop? It’s clay. A lot of the ground around here is made up of clay and if you dig into the soil you’ll find it. Lots of the old tunnel networks and caves we demolished a year ago were in clay.”
“So, there’s a chance their bases are underground,” Marsh suggested.
“It explains why aerial reconnaissance has failed to identify any potential sites,” Carstensen said, crouching beside him as well. “We need more evidence, but this is a good lead. Well done, you two.”
Honeycutt, gruff and humble, said nothing as he departed to deal with a Shock Trooper’s bleeding bullet graze. Marsh Silas sliced the bag with his knife to let the water drain. It was not worth keeping, as the water was tainted not only by clay but by the heretic’s foul breath. As well, he did not want one of their patrols to investigate the ambush site and collect resources.
As he sheathed his knife, Carstensen placed her hand on his chestplate. “Are you well?” she asked, her tone low and concerned.
“Nearly took a couple o’ heretic daggers, but that’s just another day, ain’t it, Lilias?”
Her hand traveled down his arm and wrapped around his hand. She squeezed it firmly.
“I was afraid you would be hurt. But I believed you would prove victorious. I even trusted the Whiteshields to defend you,” she said. “I wanted to help you, but I was engaged with my duty and…”
“Lilias, fret not,” Marsh soothed. “I am alive and unhurt. We must attend to our duties, always. Even if that means…”
“No, Silas. You are not expendable to me. None of these Guardsmen are,” Carstensen whispered. “When our lips met, we took on a duty to one another. The Emperor united us and we must always be present for one another, even in combat.”
Marsh Silas smiled tenderly, then hastily looked up. No one was nearby or looking their way. He kissed her and quickly pulled away.
“Throne, you’re right. You’re a gift from the Emperor and one I don’t aim to squander.”
“I feel the same way.” Carstensen suddenly huffed and rolled her eyes. “You make me say and do all manner of silly things. What a pest you are, Silas.”
“Ah, but I’m a pest worth keeping.” Marsh looked down the line at the Whiteshields, who were helping one another search. “Just like them, eh?”
“Especially them.”
“I found something!” Rowley shrieked. This was followed by a chorus of, ‘shh’s!’ But everyone hurried and gathered around the junior Voxman. She was kneeling beside a corpse that had been at the head of the enemy column and holding a sheet of parchment. Multiple lamp packs illuminated it—a map! Hyram took it from her and examined it under Marsh’s light. Portrayed on the sheet was the entire hinterland, Kasr Sonnen, the road network, and Army’s Meadow. Arrows indicated different troop movements across the environment; most were directed at various outposts along the MSR. Scribbles next to each one provided routes, dates, timetables, and mission parameters for these war parties.
Frustratingly, the heretic’s base of operations was not present. But all the arrows swept from the north towards the south and east. Hyram’s violet eyes sparkled and a grin split his face, excited to track down the elusive enemy.
“We’ve got you now, you traitorous filth,” the Lieutenant growled happily.
“So whatcha thinkin’ sir, head north or do ya want to hit these other raiding parties?” Marsh asked, pointing at some of the arrows. “We intercepted this one and if we move east, we can hit the next one. They ain’t due for another hour if I’m readin’ this right.”
“By the Emperor, I did not know the Staff Sergeant could read!” somebody quipped It sounded like Jupp.
“Somebody smack whoever said that,” Marsh said without looking up from the map. There was a distinctive slap sound behind him.
“Ow!”
“Thank you,” Marsh said over his shoulder. Hyram scrutinized the map for another moment before tucking it into his jacket pocket.
“I can’t in good conscience allow these enemy raids to commence uncontested. Cadian lives are at risk and we have the means to save them. We pursue these parties and eliminate as many as we can. If they are carrying similar intelligence we may be able to piece together the larger picture and, with the Emperor’s blessing, destroy their main base.” He checked his wrist-chrono. “That’s it then. Bloody Platoon, prepare to fall out! Yoxall, plant a few surprises for the heretics if they decide to come looking for their comrades.”
“Yessir!”
“Marsh Silas, Babcock, with me.”
Hyram led the pair towards the end of the draw. “Babcock, cut that heretic’s head off. Marsh, find a stout branch.” Marsh hacked a low-hanging branch off from one of the few trees in the draw and brought it back. When he returned, Babcock was standing with a hatchet in one hand and the hair of a severed head in the other. Upon the Lieutenant’s instructions, the platoon sergeant planted the branch vertically in the dirt and Babcock drove it in with the flat side of the hatchet blade. With his trench knife, Marsh sharpened the end of the branch and Babcock slid the head on it.
Smiling, Hyram produced a piece of parchment and a long, honed piece of wood he worked on with his own knife. Using the back of the hatchet, they hammered the parchment into the head's face. On the paper were the words, ‘Bloody Platoon was here! All heretics will die!’ The trio stepped back and regarded the totem proudly. “When they find the bodies, they will realize they are being hunted. Let them discover just who is coming for their hides.”
Marsh Silas heartily agreed as he joined the rest of Bloody Platoon, melting away into the night.