Marsh Silas and Arnold Yoxall slowly peeked over the log they were hiding behind. Both men were lying on their stomachs overlooking a hilly trail. On the downward slope, a long line of heretics marched in single-file. The trail was packed so tightly with thick scrub vegetation, large stones, and trees that it was impossible to walk in any other formation. In the pale light of the moon, the two Guardsmen studied their wargear; captured weapons, stolen leather boots, pilfered Flak Armor, but also custom lasguns and autoguns, freshly forged swords, and new armor. No two were dressed alike save for the sack hoods many of the region’s cultists, heretics, and traitors wore. As they marched, they remained silent which gave the wretched column a strange solemnity.
Both Marsh and Yoxall slid back behind cover. All around them, the Guardsmen remained crouched or prone among bushes, rocks, and behind trees. Bloody Platoon was dispersed twenty meters back from the trail, having dug in hours earlier in preparation. Although the ground was difficult to traverse they had the time and the skill to entrench in it. Invisible to the enemy, their uniforms and armor smeared with soil and snow, they kept their M36 lasguns raised. Forefingers rested anxiously outside their trigger guards.
The two friends looked at one another and the platoon sergeant nodded. Yoxall grinned, wrapped the final strand of detonation cord around the detonator, and then put his hands on the plunger. Everyone got as low as possible and pulled their head covers over their faces.
“Loud noises, mind your ears!” he hissed and shoved the plunger down. Over a dozen simultaneous explosions sent columns of earth skywards. Shrapnel hammered rocks, tore up bushes, and sliced away tree bark. Heretics screamed as their flesh was ripped up and their limbs amputated. Bodies tumbled in all directions or disappeared in the blast zones.
“Bloody Platoon!” the Guardsmen screamed. Lasbolts, plasma bolts, and bolt shells tore through the night. Staggering survivors stunned by the explosives were gunned down. Figures, reduced to shadows in the dim light and dust, fell every which way. Some crumpled over, others were thrown off their feet by the velocity of Heavy Bolter round, and others twitched and collapsed.
Marsh Silas extricated himself from his position and moved up and down the line. Autogun slugs sliced and snapped through air, grazing trees and ricocheting off rocks.
“That’s it, Bloody Platoon!” he shouted. “Maintain your base o’ fire! Aim low! Mark your targets before your fire!”
Hyram came walking the other way, his sword in hand. He pointed it at the enemy as he walked along. In the muzzle flashes and the glow of colorful lasbolts, his violet eyes were blazing and he looked every inch a Cadian officer.
“Keep up the fire, you men!” he hollered. “I want fire superiority! Give it everything you’ve got! Take no prisoners!” He crouched beside individual Guardsmen and pointed out targets for them. Following the Lieutenant’s hand, Jupp gunned down a retreating heretic, blasted open the back of a second, and blew the leg off a third. With Caferro, he spotted clusters of enemies pushing into the opposite border of the trail in an attempt to find cover. Once he discovered a holdout, he directed the grenadier to fire. One or two shells scattered the traitors and reduced their position to smoke. Hopping to the next Guardsman and the next, Hyram ensured everyone knew where they were shooting.
Meanwhile, Marsh found Babcock and Drummer Boy occupying a position behind a few larger stones. He slid in between them and resumed firing. Babcock precisely picked off targets with a laspistol while Drummer Boy flipped his M36 to semi-automatic for more accurate shots. Based at the extreme left of the line, they cut down any of the heretics who attempted to break out. Some attempted to rush their position but the volume of fire was too great. All dropped dead before they managed to get off the trail.
Enemy fire withered. Bloody Platoon kept firing but Marsh Silas lowered his weapon. He listened intently for gunfire but couldn’t pick any out among the sizzling lasers and plasma.
“Cease firing!” he shouted. “Cease firiiiing!” The volume of fire dropped to a few errant, angry shots before falling completely silent. Marsh Silas stepped from cover and ventured onto the trail. Staying at a half-crouch, he examined the carnage. Bodies and body parts, craters from Yoxall’s explosives, and blood—another victorious ambush.
It was their twelfth one in as many days since they discovered the map. Each time they eliminated another raiding party, they acquired more intelligence. Nothing led to their main base of operations but they kept discovering more opportunities to strike at the enemy’s forces.
Since that first night, they plotted the routes on their own map, chose favorable ground, waited, and struck. Every raiding party they encountered was entirely wiped out. Each success raised morale higher than ever before. Whenever they bedded down to rest, Marsh Silas saw everyone’s faces aglow with pride. So excited they were from repeated success they could hardly sleep! Some even begged Lieutenant Hyram to continue operations during daylight hours. Impressed as he was by their enthusiasm, the platoon leader disallowed it. The cover of night was one of the greatest keys to their repeated victories.
However, Lieutenant Hyram was planning something different for tonight. Marsh Silas found him conferring with Carstensen over his data-slate. Both were squatting on the right side of the trail. Already, someone delivered the movement orders and maps the heretics had carried. As bayonet men finished off the wounded, the three commanders crouched together over the data-slate.
“This is the first enemy contact I planned for this eve,” Hyram said, tapping the screen. “In the general vicinity, there were four other large enemy patrols. Three are east of us and another is to the west. I fear they may be trying to stage an assault on this checkpoint on the northern supply route.” Dramatically, he planted his finger at the point on the map. It was an isolated installation fifteen kilometers away. Much of the route was still industrializing as the operational tempo in the region increased. As such, these points on the road were meant to become larger fortifications but until that time, they possessed only small garrisons, few heavy weapons, and a paltry series of reinforced structures.
Hyram lifted his finger and ran his hand along his chin. “The small forces in these checkpoints will be overrun if we don’t destroy these heretics.”
“So, we ain’t just hittin’ the one patrol this night?” Marsh clarified. “How are we to hit all o’em? We can’t cover that much ground that fast.”
“We don’t have to,” Hyram said with a grin. “We’ll draw them to us. First, we must eliminate the patrol to the west. We’ll fight a defensive action, thin them out, then withdraw here.” He highlighted another location on the data-slate map. “A flat hilltop half a kilometer to the north. We’ll make our stand there and absorb the enemy attacks like we did during the rescue mission.”
Marsh grimaced at the memory. He remembered the run and gun action of the day, protecting the young ones as Amilios and his band gave chase. At the top of the hill, they massed their firepower and were able to hold them off until reinforcements arrived. A glorious but bittersweet victory; although the heretics were defeated, the children were already corrupted.
Hyram must have noticed the platoon sergeant’s grave expression. He reached over, clutched the collar of his Flak Armour, and jostled him gently. When Marsh looked up, the Lieutenant held him by the side of his head for a moment, carefully took a handful of his thick blonde hair, and shook him again. He let go and smiled; it was enough to make Marsh grin.
“The noise of battle alone may not attract them,” Carstensen said, utterly focused. Straightening up, she looked around. “We can light these trees afire; they’ll be noticeable for many kilometers.”
“Agreed. Corporal Tatum! Fire the trees, if you please!”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
Hyram packed up his data-slate. As he did, Marsh tapped him on his shoulder.
“Say, when did ya find that hill?”
“I reconnoitered it myself while you two were asleep yesterday. Come along! We’ve got heretics that need killing!” he said in a delighted tone. As Tatum turned his Flamer on the trees and engulfed them in fire, Marsh and Carstensen exchanged a wary, worried glance. But they jumped to their feet, rallied their platoon, and followed Hyram up the slope. Rallying Bloody Platoon as they walked, the Shock Troopers fell in behind their commanders. Everyone marched zealously; their hands were balled into hands, they pumped their legs very hard, and those who hadn’t reloaded their weapons slammed fresh charge packs into magazine wells. Nobody was fatigued as they traversed the thin, upward trail.
The hill that punctuated the trail morphed with a ridge that ran from south to north. Although it possessed a gentle slope on either end, the ridge was congested with even more stones and thicketts than the trail. At the top, Marsh raised his magnoculars, still tied around his neck. He looked out at the landscape, illuminated in a dull green filter by the scope’s Night Eye feature. Hyram took the magnoculars from his grasp, surveyed the ground momentarily, and then pointed due north as he handed them back. “See? The elevation is higher than this hill and will give us a commanding three-hundred sixty degree view of the area. It’s removed enough from all other rises so the enemy will not be able to engage us at long range.”
In Marsh’s mind, Barlocke chuckled handsomely. The warmth spread down Marsh’s neck and seemed to fill his chest. Lieutenant Hyram continues to impress me. If you told me all those months ago this timid man was to become a ruthless tactician, I may not have believed you. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you old friend,’ Marsh thought. You say he is the fatherly one, but it is you who so often looks at him with a father’s pride. The platoon sergeant rolled his eyes.
Hyram rallied the squad leaders. “We’ll form a line to face the threat coming from the west. All Heavy Weapons Squads will deploy on the left across the southern ridge with the Special Weapons Squad. Queshire, get your gunmen into a reserve position to watch the east in case the enemy comes upon us. Holmwood, 1st Squad, will be on the right flank. Form into a hook to deflect any flanking maneuvers. Mottershead, we’ll be in the center. Carstensen, I want you with the Heavies. Marsh, Clivvy, you and the Whiteshields will be in the center also. Order of withdrawal will be from south to north, with Holmwood’s squad the last to vacate the position. Go.”
Everyone dispersed with a cry of, ‘yes, sir!’ Marsh and Clivvy spread the Whiteshields left of center. The jammed up nature of the ground made it very easy to dig in. All the larger rocks were about waist-high and the grass grew thickly between them. Many of the axel-trees were tall and thick which allowed a Guardsman to stand behind the trunk without being seen. Everyone crawled and crouched into place. Charge packs were checked and bayonets secured.
Marsh crouched beside Graeme, tapping the young man on the back of his head. He was jittery but grinned happily before turning back to face the west. The platoon sergeant looked over his shoulder. Dozens of trees were wreathed in flames. Pine needles snapped and the moisture trapped in the bark popped. An orange haze emanated from the flames; it was so bright he saw Queshire and 3rd Squad’s silhouettes against the light. Just as began to look forward again, he heard a terrific snap! Every single member of Bloody Platoon looked back. One of the trees broke at the base and collapsed onto the trail in a shower of sparks. Clouds of sparks shot out and fluttered upwards. Vegetation caught fire with a ferocious whoosh, like a great breath from a snarling beast.
“Here they come!”
He looked down the slope of the hill to the west. A horde of heretics crept silently up the hill. Upon being spotted, they issued a frenzied war cry and charged to cover the ground quickly. Lasbolts and Heavy Bolter shells ripped through the night. Heretics tumbled back down the hill or fell flat against it. Firing from the hip and lobbing grenades, the ragged attackers continue to run. When they were halfway up the slope, Marsh ducked down to load a fresh charge pack in his M36. As he came up, a heretic rushed at him with a machete raised. Before he could bring his lasgun to bear, a blue bolt struck the heretic and threw him out of sight.
Yeardley raced into the position, stood up, changed the intensity on his laspistol, and fired red lasbolts down at the enemy. His teeth were clenched and his eyes were angry.
“Get down, boy!”
“I’m not afraid!”
“But you are stupid, down!” Marsh grabbed him by his rucksack and yanked him to the ground. There was no time to scold him. He raised his weapon and continued shooting. When his charge pack was drained, he let his weapon hang by the sling and pulled a grenade from his chest. Plucking the pin and releasing the spoon, he lobbed it down the slope. The small explosion threw up black earth and snow. Several heretics fell. More grenades went off and cut down entire squads of attackers. Yet they came on and on. Out of grenades, Marsh drew his Ripper Pistol and emptied a magazine into a few who assaulted his position. Still unable to reload, he dropped the pistol and drew the shotgun.
He waited for the right moment to fire. Five heretics came bounding towards their position, intent to overrun them with their swords. When they closed in at ten meters, Marsh bounced up and squeezed off all eight rounds in the cylinder. The five enemies dropped out of sight. Finally, he was able to reload. Yeardley covered him as he cycled all his weapons. As he did, Hyram came running back.
“Displace! Withdraw in good order!” he shouted. Moments later, Carstensen and the Heavy Weapons Squads came by. When they were gone, Hyram ran to the Special Weapons Squads and began tapping them on the shoulder. Each one turned and fell back. Storming by, Hyram pointed at Marsh Silas. “Now’s your time, displace!”
Marsh opened his mouth to yell his orders but Clivvy ran in front of him.
“Whiteshields, with me! Double quick!”
“Lively now, lively!” Webley ordered, waving her arm. Seeing Marsh sitting behind the rock, she extended her hand. The platoon sergeant took it and she helped him to his feet. Together, they ran down the line. As they passed 1st Squad and the platoon command squad, Hyram ordered them go.
Marsh weaved his way through the growth and rocks. The northern half of the ridge petered downwards. Ahead of him, Bloody Platoon broke from the ridge and started crossing open ground. Tracer rounds flew over their heads, flashing red and green in the darkness. Despite their wargear, everyone pounded on as fast as they could. Marsh’s rucksack and extra weapons weighed heavily on his back but he still pressed on. Each hot breath appeared as a white cloud in front of him. Sweat ran down his face and the cold air stung his bearded cheeks.
He listened to the sounds of gunfire intensify behind him. Glancing back, he saw yellow muzzle flashes all over their original position. The rearguard of the platoon conducted a fighting retreat. Sprinting for a few meters, they would then stop, suppress the enemy position, and then continue falling back. Marsh didn’t know if everyone made it off the ridge or if there were any casualties. There was no time to communicate via the micro-bead; he was moving so fast and so focused on the hill ahead of him he could hardly pray for their safety.
Finally at the base of the hill, Bloody Platoon clawed their way to the top. Carstensen appeared at the crest and raised her Bolt Pistol over her head. With the other hand cloaked in the power fist, she waved them up.
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“Come on, come on! Move it! Form a firing line here!” She swept her hand to her left. “Form up right here and provide covering fire!”
The Heavy Bolters opened up, their reports sounding like rattling chains sweeping over a metal floor. Yellow tracers filled the night sky and flew over the heads of the rearguard. Marsh took cover behind a log and added his weight to the fire. More members of Bloody Platoon came flooding over the crest and filled the position. The last one to arrive was Hyram who dove over the log and rolled next to Marsh.
“The enemy is holding ground along that ridge,” he said, peeking above the log and motioning to it with his hand. “We’ve inflicted heavy casualties. We have a few ourselves. Honeycutt! Establish an aid station in the center of the crest. Drummer Boy, I want our CP right next to it!”
“Do you think the other raiding parties took the bait?” Marsh asked.
“Between the fire and all the bloody explosions, they’d better,” Hyram said. “I don’t wish to be made a fool of this night.”
Marsh raised his magnoculars and gazed at the burning trees. It was as if the entire slope were on fire. Brown-gray smoke rose from the burning vegetation and fallen trees. Trails of flames whisked through the air as verdant branches turned to charcoal. The wind fanned it all, spreading the smoke to the east. Little figures outlined by the flames darted back and forth. Occasionally, an enemy round would strike the ground nearby and kick up some pebbles or dirt.
Hyram continued to gaze menacingly at the enemy position. He took Marsh’s magnoculars and gazed at the landscape. Minutes ticked by. Men reloaded, dug fighting holes, moved logs into position, and checked their wargear. Behind them, a few of the wounded veterans moaned. Just as the platoon sergeant lowered his magnoculars, the Lieutenant jumped to his feet. “Babcock, hand me the standard! Drummer Boy, the laud hailer!”
Taking the flag, Hyram walked to the center of the hill where there was a pile of rocks. He climbed to the top, wedged the standard’s pole into a crevice, and then yanked his flare gun out. Pointing it at the sky and squeezing the trigger, he launched a red flare high into the sky. It popped and sent out three smaller, blazing lights which descended slowly on their position. Dropping the flare gun, he held the laud hailer to his lips. “Heretics!” he screamed. “We are Bloody Platoon! Fight us if you dare!”
His voice carried across the snowy hinterland. Everyone gazed at their commander as he stood defiantly with the flag. Suddenly, an angry chorus of voices rose in the distance. In the distance, many figures emerged. They came from the southeast, swarming over berms and ridges. More came directly from the position Bloody Platoon originally occupied. Without the intense trade of fusillades, their footsteps carried thunderously over the land.
Marsh rose from his position and walked the line again. Carstensen and Hyram also joined him.
“Here they come, men. Hold fast. We’ve got the high ground. Mark your targets before you fire. Check your autopistol magazines and charge packs.”
“Holmwood, displace to our eastern flank. Albert, Brownlow, go with them. Olhouser, illumination rounds followed by incendiaries. Keep your eyes open men, be brave.”
“The Emperor stands with us this night, men!” Carstensen cheered, raising her gauntleted fist. “Honor him by smiting these wretches! Pray not for protection or forgiveness or strength! Give thanks to the God-Emperor for bestowing you with a full field of fire and an enemy to fight!”
The pounding feet grew louder. Heretics began shooting. Bullets snapped all around. They threw up another ghastly, animalistic war cry as they charged.
“Raise your voices, Bloody Platoon!” Hyram shouted.
“Bloody Platooooon!” the men all screamed and then began bellowed incoherently. The enemy came within three hundred meters, two hundred meters, and finally one hundred and fifty. “Open fiiiire!”
The entire line lit up with lasbolts, plasma, and tracers. Grenades and mortars detonated, scattering heretics in every direction. Almost immediately, the front ranks of the enemy force dropped. Those behind tripped and toppled over bodies. But like an ocean wave, the enemy kept rolling forward. More intelligent heretics took cover in depressions or behind rocks to provide covering fire for those who advanced. Heavy Stubbers raked the front of Bloody Platoon’s position and grenades detonated close by.
Bullets tore chunks out of the log Marsh lay behind. He popped up, squeezing off a few rounds before he was forced back down by automatic fire. Behind him, Olhouser and Snyder’s mortar whumped; whistling filled the air before the shell hit among the enemy. Incendiary shells burst into a fiery cloud and sent out flaming pieces of shrapnel. When they struck flesh, they did not stop burning. Those who were struck by the shrapnel tore at their own flesh to get it out. Others tried to roll themselves out as their clothes, hair, and flesh were consumed by flames. Left behind was a white, choking haze. It filled and burned the lungs, bringing even the most foul, sturdy heretics to their knees. So hot was this residue it burned the skin and eyes.
Some of the drier vegetation throughout the ground caught fire. It spread to patches of grass. Soon, blankets of flames appeared; the orange glow lit up the surrounding area and exposed the enemy. Their faces were horrid; missing cheeks, mangled yellow teeth, burning red eyes, and deathly gray skin. Such sights filled Marsh and the others with fear but they fought on.
“We need more firepower on the left flank! Repeat, we need some gunmen on the eastern side!” Holmwood shouted over the micro-bead.
“Stainthorpe, get your men over there and add some weight to the fight! Honeycutt, send any walking wounded back to the line, we need more guns!”
Marsh reloaded and looked down the line to his left as he did. Men crouched and lobbed hand grenades. Others continued to fire their M36 lasguns, flipping the firing mode to automatic and tore heretics apart with the blasts. Targets were called out, spare charge packs tossed between soldiers, and wounded troopers briefly retreated from the line to the aid station, got stitched up, and returned to fight.
Blue, golden, and red lasbolts illuminated the Shock Troopers. Yellow muzzle flashes emitting from Heavy Bolters were blinding. White-blue plasma bolts hissed across the landscape and struck targets center-mass, cleaving them in half or blowing them to pieces. Yoxall stood with his Meltagun and sprayed a group who managed to get near the crest. All of them were coated in the golden molten beam as it snatched moisture from the air. Amid the hissing, the targets screamed their last as their flesh blackened and bubbled. Further down the line, gouts of fire spewed from Tatum’s Flamer. Droves of heretics were engulfed in the fireball or retreated.
Suddenly, Barlocke’s fragment gasped. Silvanus, they’re going to try and flank us on the right. We don’t have anyone over there. Marsh glanced over and saw he was right. Nobody had stationed themselves there as the enemy was coming from the east, southwest, or due south. Trying to look over the log, he was driven back down by a fusillade of autogun rounds. In the brief glimpse he caught, he saw hundreds of heretics assaulting their position head on. But the movement behind them was erratic and tactically imprecise.
“I can’t make it out. Are you sure?” Marsh said as he stayed low, his voice drowned out to the others around him by so many firing weapons. I can sense them. They’re not as blind as they seem; they’re adapting. We need to move to the right and hold our ground or else the position is in jeopardy! Marsh gritted his teeth and stood up. “Whiteshields, with me!”
Without questioning him, the young ones followed him and together they raced to their new positions. Dispersing among mounds of earth, rocks, stumps, and logs, they took aim. Already, heretics were sweeping around and flowing up the hill. The Whiteshields tossed and rolled grenades down the slope. Each blast drove the enemy back and gave the squad time to thin their ranks with their lasguns. Some tried to outflank them again. Marsh rolled behind a nearby mound and cut them down.
He heard beating feet behind him. Yeardley and Graeme ran to the extreme right of the position. Both primed grenades at the same time. Graeme tossed his first but an autogun slug hit him in his chestplate. He fell back and knocked Yeardley to the side as he did. Marsh’s eyes widened as the Whiteshield lost the grip on his grenade.
“Hit the dirt!” Yeardley screamed as he dove away. A cloud of dirt and snow erupted where he stood. In the flurry, Marsh heard a shout and saw a form go tumbling down the hill. A moment later, he was over where he last saw him. Graeme was curled on the ground and covering his head. Marsh pushed him onto his back, shouldered his weapon, and with both hands patted him up and down. There were no wounds.
“The Emperor was watching over you, son!” he screamed.
“Yeardley fell!”
Under fire, Marsh and Grame crawled to the edge of the hill. Twenty or so meters below them was a form crouched behind a boulder. Red lasbolts arched from his position. Heretics shifted their attack and assaulted the rock.
“You’re with me, Graeme!”
“With you, Staff Sergeant!”
Together, they raced down the hill, firing as they did. Bounding so fast, both nearly tumbled as they slid into Yeardley’s position. As Graeme provided covering fire, Marsh checked him over. There was a large red hole in the Whiteshield’s left thigh.
“It feels like my leg is afire!” He moaned through gritted teeth. Marsh felt the other side of his leg and found a section of his trousers ripped out. His finger felt wet flesh and a larger hole. Yeardley kicked and screamed. Whatever hit him, whether it was shrapnel or a bullet, seemed to have gone through the fleshy part of his thigh. But both wounds were bleeding profusely. Marsh dug into his kit bag, produced a tourniquet, wrapped it around the lad’s leg as tightly as he could, and hooked it. Yeardley’s eyes popped and he yelled loudly as the tourniquet was fastened.
“Graeme, I’ll carry him, you stay right behind me and provide cover fire. Shoot and move, clear?”
“Clear, Staff Sergeant!”
“Go!”
Marsh threw Yeardley over his shoulders which was no easy feat. Strong as he was, a Whiteshield in half-armor and laden with wargear was still very heavy. Grunting and snorting, he marched his way up the hill. Bullets sliced through his trousers, kicked up deposits of pebbles on the slope, and sheared away tufts of grass. Round landing in front of him sprayed his face with dirt. Behind him, Graeme fired his M36 deliberately; there would be the report of an autogun, followed by the Whiteshield’s M36, and then the autogun would cease firing.
The top seemed far away. Guardsmen appeared and fired at the flankers. Fleming appeared and very brazenly jumped on top of a rock, aimed his grenade launcher, and rapidly discharged his grenade launcher. Bullets smacked the rocks around him and cracked by his head, but the grenadier did not flinch. Marsh dared to look right. Heretics were charging parallel to him and Graeme, ignoring the small rescue party as they attacked the main line. Some got close enough to brandish melee weapons. Just as they vaulted over the Imperial position, bayonets appeared and gutted them. Out of shells, Fleming drew his laspistol and dropped enemies attempting to overtake the rescue party. When a heretic came to attack him instead, he dropped his pistol, grabbed his launcher by the barrel, and smashed the buttstock over the heretic’s head.
Dropping it, he slid down the slope and held Marsh carry Yeardley. As heretics drew nearer, Northmore and Capron appeared. They emptied their autopistols, then drew their trench knives Capron wielded his dagger in one hand and one of the utility hatchets they brought in the other. Roaring, he tackled one of the heretics and sank the hatchet into the enemy’s chest. Northmore bashed one in the face with his trench knife’s adamantium knuckles before cutting another across the face.
Fending off the enemy, the rescue party flopped behind a large, fallen timber. As they got back up to fend themselves, a swarm of heretics came charging at them. A burst of automatic laser fire cut them down. Standing over them was Lieutenant Hyram with his M36 raised.
“Don’t let up!” he ordered, racing back and forth, stopping only to fire. “Let’em have it! We are not the Emperor’s hammer this night we are His fury!”
“Here they come again!”
Marsh looked down to see enemy reinforcements approaching. It was either the reserve of the attacking force or another raiding party attracted to the battle. Grenades exploded nearby. Mortar shells fell and Heavy Stubbers rattled. Even rockets slammed into their position. Marsh propped Yeardley up against the log and turned him so he could fire. Shoving his grenade launcher back in his hands, he tapped him on his breastplate and pointed down the hill.
“I’m gonna fix ya up so you can stay in the fight! You make sure there’s a big pile of dead bodies at the bottom of this hill!”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant!”
“Everybody, keep firing! Fire, Yeardley, fire!”
***
Morning revealed a smoking battlefield. Craters and patches of blackened earth dotted the landscape. Brush fires still burned in many spots. The hill and ridge were entirely burned over the course of the night; not a single tree or bush remained. Blackened roots were all that left. Everywhere, there were corpses twisted in every way. Crumpled heaps, drawn out bodies, decapitated, blown open, burned husks, blasted apart; everywhere there were droves, piles, and lines of dead heretics. Many lined the holes of shell craters, forming small rings around them. Others died huddled up next to boulders or stumps. Some filled the depressions in the land.
At the top of the hill, Bloody Platoon’s standard flapped in the chilly breeze. Among their slice of Cadian soil were the corpses of many enemy fighters. In the center, under the flag, the aid station was still treating some wounded. Those who were still awake moaned and groaned. Only a few lay in the hastily dug fighting holes and slept. Around the perimeter, the defenders sat and lay every which way. A small number were actually asleep after such a long night of hard fighting. Many took the opportunity to stand up after having spent the night crouched or prone. Many wore cloaks or mantles against the wind. Caught in the gentle gusts, they remained suspended and flowing before the wind dropped, then fell back across their wearer’s shoulders. Many withdrew from the line and clustered in fighting holes and depressions. Cooking fires were started and the scent of frying Grox meat, eggs, and bread filled the air, mingling with the scents of burnt flesh and gunpowder.
Marsh sat on the crest overlooking the south with his M36 between his legs. He gently scraped the earth with the stock. The barrel pointed upwards, the bayonet still slick with red blood. Beside him, his patrol cap sat on a small, flat rock. Next to that was his Flak Armour chestpiece. Cold wind tugged at his thick blonde locks, spilling them in every direction. What remained of his charcoal face paint was mostly faded and replaced by smudges of earth, dust, and soot. Unbuttoning the top of his coat and under layers, his identification tags dangled from his neck. The cool air felt good against his neck.
Mottershead and 2nd Squad patrolled across the space between the two hills. They prodded bodies with their booted feet or with bayonets. Occasionally they came across a wounded heretic and finished him off. Every single body was searched. Marsh rested his head against the side of his M36 as he watched them. Clutching the barrel with both hands, his prayer beads were laced between his fingers. The black and brown beads clinked against the olive drab metal of the lasgun. Feeling utterly drained and devoid of energy, his eyelids began to droop.
“Here.”
Marsh found a tin mug right next to his head. Steam rose from freshly brewed recaf. He looked up. Hyram smiled down at him, holding another mug in his other hand. Silently, the platoon sergeant accepted it, set his lasgun down, and took a sip. Hyram doffed his own patrol cap and sat beside him. Both of them clutched their tin mugs with both hands and took long sips.
“Our packs are recharging, but we’re out of grenades. The grenadiers don’t have ten rounds between them and Walmsley Major tells me there are only one thousand rounds left for both Heavy Bolters. It’s time for the first airdrop. I’ll send the wound back with the Valkyries.”
“How’s the boy?”
“He wants to stay. They all do, of course.”
“Damned fools,” Marsh chuckled into his mug. Hyram cracked a smile and shook his head.
“They amaze me. Such bravery.” He began tracing the rim of the mug. Marsh gazed at his friend for a time. There was an almost sorrowful look in the Lieutenant’s eyes and his smile seemed very sad. Victory, however great, often brought out many emotions in a leader. A junior Cadian Guardsman could exalt even after the most pyrrhic victories. Experienced NCOs could too. But an officer saw battles differently. Even in victory, a good officer saw mistakes, close calls, and every action he could have taken differently. Such was the case for a soldier’s soldier like Hyram. It came with being good in mind and soul; as good as he was, he was not exempt from the burdens and tribulations of command.
Hyram looked back at Marsh Silas. He seemed mystified for a moment, then he laughed.
“And there I see my own reflection. The leader’s look. You’re meant to be an officer, aren’t you?”
“Until then, I’m a platoon sergeant, as the one for this here platoon, I gotta you something, sir.” Marsh set his mug down and pointed at the field. “Out there ya see many hundreds of enemy dead. In many places, some of’em close, some far, there are Cadians alive because o’ that. That’s thanks to you.”
“It’s thanks to these stalwart men and the Emperor,” Hyram replied quickly, then smiled at the ground. “And I had a good teacher.”
“A very handsome one at that,” Marsh said, elbowing his friend. “But I didn’t teach ya that. I’ll follow you anywhere, Seathan Hyram.”
Hyram smiled at him, reached over, and jostled the platoon sergeant by the shoulder. At first, he was gentle but became rougher. Eventually, the pair started to laugh and they shoved each other a little, pushed at the other’s face, and ruffled the other’s hair. “Victory is ours!” Marsh said through clenched teeth as he smiled.
“Are you two quite finished regarding this glorious view?”
Both looked up at Junior Commissar Carstensen. Her uniform was terribly dirty from the night’s fighting and her orange locks swept back and forth across her face. Despite her taciturn tone, she wore a very delighted smile on her face. “I think you’re in my seat, Lieutenant.”
“I suppose I am,” Hyram said and shifted to Marsh’s opposite side. Carstensen sat down, sharing a tender glance with Marsh Silas. The Lieutenant moaned a little and shook his head. “You two will have to do better than that if you want to convince others you are not in a massive breach of fraternization regulations.”
“Shall you tattle on us, sir?” Carstensen asked playfully.
“And disturb our Emperor’s greatest gift to Mankind?” Hyram asked, bemused. “I should think not. Let us enjoy the quiet and the view, yes?”
“I’m afraid not, sir, you’ll have to look at this.” Carstensen held up a large, rolled up sheet of parchment. Marsh and Hyram unrolled it and balanced the paper on their thighs. The platoon sergeant’s eyes lit up and he grinned. Hyram, slapped his knee.
“We’ve got them now!”