As the morning went on, Bloody Platoon treated themselves to a larger breakfast than usual, or at least what could constitute a larger breakfast. Up until that point, they were subsisting mostly on dry or cold rations with the occasional heated half-meal. It was to minimize their profile of course; leaving ration seals would create a lovely trail for the enemy to follow. Food intake was carefully monitored as they needed to sustain themselves as long as possible. After all, they carried everything and their wargear loads needed to be evenly distributed. Too much weight would wear a man down over the course of their marches. It was a difficult tactical choice, as the amount of walking under such heavy loads caused the troopers to lose weight quickly. But finally, with a quarter of the platoon on watch and with the enemy presence in the immediate area subdued, they could sit down, rest, and eat a full meal. Or at least, something close to one.
Others were too excited and restless to remain seated, however. While Marsh Silas smoked his pipe for the first time in weeks, many of the men picked through what the heretics dropped on the field. While none dared to touch their flesh or search their pockets for parchments with maps and scribbles, they were fascinated with the weapons they carried. Whether these were stripped from the bodies of the Interior Guard, acquired from an Imperial storehouse, or piecemealed together from various models and pieces, these were intriguing trinkets. These were not kept for fear of taint on the part of cultists and heretics, so most were acquired, briefly studied, and then discarded in a pile Yoxall would destroy with explosives.
It was concerning to see so many looted firearms among the dead. Marsh Silas spent most of his career fighting heretics armed with autoguns, not foes equipped similarly to him. Of course, it was all for naught, as the heretics could not best Shock Troopers armed with M36 Kantrael pattern lasguns and MG Defender Pattern service laspistols. But he was more puzzled by their recently manufactured arms. How did the heretics equip themselves with patterns of both laser and ballistic weapons which did not fit any template he encountered before? Were they forging them underground?
The troops of Bloody Platoon picked up the littered arms and compared them to their own. Their weapons, although dirty from the long march, were properly maintained. Some of the enemy autoguns were made from recycled scrap metal and the cells for their lasguns were scrounged. While a number of the enemy’s firearms were in decent condition while others suffered from poor seating and manufacture. Furniture was weak, warped, and loose. Some even broke apart as a Shock Trooper picked it up. Barrels and buttplates were rusted, magazines didn’t sit correctly in the well, and grips often consisted of a series of metal wiring twisted to fit in the palm of a hand. Pieces of pipes were nailed to the top rail of some of the long autoguns, a crude attempt to create optics and scopes. Bayonets consisted of extended pieces of rusted metal or a fighting knife wrapped to the barrel by tape.
“Look at this one here, brother!” Walmsley Minor called from halfway down the southern slope. A few standard feet away from Marsh Silas, Walmsley Major stepped up to the edge. His brother heaved an enemy autogun at him which he caught with ease. He looked it over; it was not a very large weapon but there was something strange about it. Even Marsh, who just so happened to glance at it, found it odd.
Walmsley Minor trudged up the slope and tapped the center of the weapon, his fine hair matted to his head. “It’s the body of an M36. Can ya believe it? They converted a lasgun to fire slugs. The heretics must have a skilled weaponsmith with them.”
It was true. Although the weapons were made of flimsy and cheap material, the actual craftsmanship was simple but elegant. Whoever was putting the firearms together was knowledgeable enough with ballistics and lasers. Was it a corrupted Tech-Priest or Enginseer? If so, Marsh Silas wondered what other vile creations the traitor was conjuring.
“Smile for the picter, lads.”
Both of the Walmsley brothers turned to face Valens, the regimental pict-capturer. Somehow, he managed to survive the night as he had at Kasr Fortis. Once again, he proved himself capable of holding his weight in a firefight despite his cushy occupation while in-garrison. He held a small picter, a recording device, on his shoulder. Walmsley Major shifted his grip, holding the autogun by its stock, and raised it higher. When he did, he opened his mouth for a big, wide smile. His thick blonde hair had become quite curly and it bounced in the morning wind. Beside him, his brother smiled but his gaze remained fixed on the weapon. Marsh remained respectfully out of frame. After Valens recorded them for a moment, he chuckled. “Thanks, that’ll do nicely. I’ll make some stills when I play’em back.”
Valens moved towards the center of the flat hilltop where the majority of the troops were. Marsh Silas picked up his empty tin mug and decided to join him. As he walked, the smoke of his pipe danced in the wind. On their way, they passed some of the outlying members who were sitting in shallow fighting holes, depressions, and on or against rocks. Sitting on one small boulder was Olhouser who was regaling the Whiteshields with a story. Over the course of the journey his hair had grown quickly and was matted against his forehead and the sides of his head. His beard was especially thick on his chin with two parallel white streaks in the center.
“And we came riding in on the Chimeras to rescue the Basilisk convoy. Just as the shootin’ started, ol’ Marsh Silas ran over to the tank, told’em to level the cannon, and take out the closest house. I tell ya, children, there ain’t a more beautiful sound than a Battle Cannon going off. One round at point-blank range? Practically blew the house in two! And then we launched a pincer attack, half the platoon goin’ up the left side of the village and the other half goin’ up the right.” As he talked, he motioned with his arms and hands, indicating the lines of the village they assaulted so long ago with Barlocke. Valens stopped to record him for a moment too.
Somewhat removed from the group were Bullard and Astle. The latter was the Voxman of 2nd Squad. He sat on the ground with his back against a boulder. To his left was his Vox-caster and he kept the handset pressed up against his ear. Bullard sat to the Voxman’s right on top of the rock and scanned the landscape through the scope of his long-las. Instead of wearing a soft cover, he wore a long hood with a camouflage mesh and netting cover. It came down to the bottom of his neck.Two flaps hung from the front so they could cover his face but he pinned these to clips on the back.
Valens approached, bent over, and raised his picter. At first, neither noticed but Bullard eventually did. Dirty and bearded, he smiled wide and waved his hand. Shifting to the left, Valens focused the picter on Astle who mimicked his companion.
Marsh continued following the shorter Cadian until he reached the main camp. Almost everyone smoked, drank recaf, and took big bites out of Grox jerky strips. A few remained on watch, however, and Valens drifted over to them. Hoole sat by himself in a shallow fighting hole which Shock Troopers sometimes scrape. A man who sat upright in one would still have his upper body exposed but the purpose of such holes was to recline or lay prone. If a trooper did that, then he was comfortably below the surface. At the bottom was a small fire by which he warmed his bare feet.
“Hoole!” Valens said quickly. The trooper turned around, instantly smiled, and waved at the picter. Chuckling, the regimental pict-capturer turned around and returned to the main group. They were spread out in the shape of a U near the cluster of rocks where the standard still flew. Everyone’s hair was longer or thicker, their beards were filling out, and their faces were so filthy a layer of dust and dirt covered what was left of their facial paint. Some had their sleeves rolled up, others bundled up in their blankets, while others boasted of being too warm and stripped down to some of their thinner layers.
Just as Marsh was about to sit down, placing his tin mug next to an assortment of other mess kits, a hand latched on his arm.
“Valens, why don’t you get a shot of us?” Lieutenant Hyram said in a rather cheerful tone. Before Marsh protested, he was wheeled around. With his right hand clutching the sling of his M36, he smiled at the picter. Hyram stood on the platoon sergeant’s right side and placed his left arm on his friend’s shoulder. Marsh lowered his pipe, letting the smoke swirl from the bowl. After exchanging a brief glance, the two friends looked at the recorder with cocksure grins and satisfied airs. As he filmed them, Valens nodded, obviously pleased with the two trooper’s demeanors.
Marsh was still looking at the picter when he felt another hand on his shoulder. Carstensen flashed a fleeting smile at him before folding her hands behind her back. Assuming a stately posture, she offered the regimental pict-capturer a dignified expression. As serious as it was, the contrast between her stoic outlook, flowing orange hair, and dirty face made her appear more as a line trooper than a Junior Commissar. Nonetheless, Marsh Silas found her perfectly picturesque. Inspired, he tilted his NCO patrol cover down in a more determined manner and did his best to appear more confident than before.
Before he knew it, Arnold Yoxall crouched in front of him. Then there was Drummer Boy, excitedly dropping his Vox-caster in front of him. Honeycutt, the squad leaders, all their sentries, the lone troopers inspecting the field, even the Whiteshields—all gathered around their three commanders to pose for the picter. Valens kept backing up and adjusting his instrument to accommodate every face. Men held up their trophies and weapons, tipped their hats, put their lho-sticks to their lips, clutched their holy icons, and smiled wide. To punctuate the congregation, Babcock jumped on the rock and held up the standard. At first, the flag draped limply but a gust of wind caught it so hard it nearly went taught.
“Have anything you want to say to the picter, Lieutenant?” Valens asked. Everyone encouraged the platoon leader to speak. Hyram cleared his throat.
“This is 1st Platoon, 1st Company of the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third Cadian Shock Troopers!” he stated proudly, then gazed at the troops. “Who are we!?”
“Bloody Platoon!”
“Let our Lord hear your voices on three! One-two-three!”
“For the Emperor!” the entire platoon hollered loudly, their voices carrying across the countryside.
More cheering would have ensued if not for the distant thunder of approaching engines. Everyone turned to the south and witnessed a pair of rapidly approaching Valkyries. Immediately, Bloody Platoon returned to their positions and duties. Upon Hyram’s order, Marsh took a smoke grenade from his webbing, pulled the pin, and tossed it to a clear area of the flat hilltop. Yellow smoke billowed into the air. Both aircraft swept over the landing zone, turned, hovered, and slowly descended. Landing gracefully, the VTOLs powerful engines kicked up a cloud of loose snow and dirt.
Once the ramps lowered, the crew members shoved bundles and crates of supplies off the dropships. 1st and 2nd Squads assisted them and soon the supplies were dragged away from the landing zone. Gleefully, Bloody Platoon cracked the parcels upon. Stores of grenades, rations, and autopistol magazines were replenished. Among the supplies were fresh coats, material and tools to repair uniforms, and even new soles and inserts for their boots.
While the supplies were distributed under the dutiful gaze of the squad leaders, Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen waited near the landing zone. After the supplies were disgorged, a lone figure trundled down the ramp. Dressed in a fresh, splendid field uniform complete with his low-peaked cap was Captain Giles. The officer wore an amicable smile complemented by his kind violet eyes.
Salutes were exchanged and 1st Company’s commander shook each of their hands.
“Well done, well done,” he congratulated them. “Let’s have a look at the battlefield, then.”
The trio led their commander to the edge of the hill to survey the previous night’s carnage. While they waited for the Captain to arrive, many of Cadia’s native carrion birds descended on the field of corpses. Many picked away at the flesh, their long, gray beaks pecking, tearing, and snapping. Giles only gazed at the sight for a few minutes before turning back to Bloody Platoon’s leaders. “Lieutenant Hyram, you certainly have a penchant for the high ground. I would say we should dub this worthy ground, ‘Hyram’s Hill,’ but one already bears that title, does it not?”
Humbled, Hyram smiled bashfully and looked away.
“Indeed, sir. But to the business at hand; Junior Commissar, the map if you please.”
Carstensen retrieved the ragged, greasy parchment she discovered earlier and handed it over. Marsh Silas, Hyram, and the Junior Commissar each crowded around their superior officer and gazed at. The map did not detail the movement of raiding parties like all the others. Instead, it showed a series of mounds. They were little rises, like hills, with holes drawn in them. Arrayed in a half-circle with the line bowing to the south, they were linked by numerous lines. Notes in the margins described length, width, and depth. While these may have appeared as lines to the untrained eye, they were actually indications of tunnel networks to the experienced eyes of veteran Shock Troopers. After all, they used tunnels themselves to quickly traverse the grounds of their bases.
Giles folded the map and turned to face his subordinates. Hyram made a fist and dropped it into the palm of his other hand. “We had our suspicions and this map confirms it: the heretics have been hiding underground all this time. It explains why our air and Sentinel patrols could never find them. It also appears the enemy is producing their own armor and weaponry. I request permission to attack one of these enemy bastions at once, sir, to discover if they have forges.”
“None of these appear as their central command, Lieutenant. If we have the opportunity to strike at their heart, it would be wise to bypass their smaller redoubts. By cutting them off from their command, it will be a matter of mopping up the remnants.”
“Yes, but this map is incomplete, so to speak sir. Look again and you’ll see this pattern in their lines mimics the smaller fortifications and installations that protect a large base or a kasr. A single ring or multiple rings of defense which can deflect and absorb enemy attacks whilst serving as staging grounds for operations. Sir, I believe if we can seize one, we’ll have a foothold in their perimeter and if we continue pushing north or find further intelligence, we will find their stronghold,” Hyram insisted.
Giles tapped the folded map into the palm of his other hand. His lips were pressed into a tight line as he thought.
“Are you certain in your wish to persist in this endeavor? I have enough evidence from your reports to spur the entire regiment and support units into an attack on this enemy hive. Colonel Isaev is none too pleased about that either. He’s already angry that you’re still out here attacking targets. You find one of their strongholds? You’ll embarrass him and that just might be worse.”
Hyram exchanged a brief glance with Marsh and Carstensen. The platoon sergeant and Junior Commissar also looked at one another. Then, they gave their immediate superior a resolute nod. Bolstered, the Lieutenant smiled and nodded as well. A smile tugged at Giles’s lips. “Very well. I shall return to Army’s Meadow and see that the entire regiment is mobilized. Colonel Isaev cannot resist us now. You have a copy of the map in your data-slate? Good. Proceed to your objective, seize it, and then hold that ground until the regiment arrives. If you can, feed us as much information as possible. May the Emperor be with you always.”
After another exchange of salutes, Captain Giles boarded one of the waiting Valkyries. Pausing halfway up the ramp, he turned around and cupped his hand around his mouth. “You saved a great many lives last night! Keep at it, Bloody Platoon!” Then, he disappeared inside and the ramp shut. Both aircraft ascended, turned their noses, and flew southward.
***
Bloody Platoon spent the rest of the morning and afternoon resting. With the Emperor’s blessing, they were undisturbed throughout the entire day. By the time they packed their rucksacks and shouldered their weapons, the Cadians were energetic and keen to push on. Heading due north under a partly cloudy nighttime sky, they covered ground as quickly. Although they were quite comfortable being out in the Cadian hinterland after so many weeks, Hyram did not want them to grow complacent. As a result, they still maintained a tactical column with skirmishers on their flanks. If any Guardsmen spotted a suspicious sight or heard a strange noise, the column halted until it was safe to move on. Occasionally, Hyram paused to cover himself with a blanket to check his data-slate, still mindful of the screen’s bright glare.
Despite their many stops, they made good time. Even wounded men kept pace with their comrades. Out of everyone, Yeardley was struggling the most due to his injured leg. Marsh Silas dropped back to the center of the column where the Whiteshields marched and picked him out among them. In the intermittent light of the moon, a sheen of sweat shimmered on the young man’s face. Limping along, he huffed and puffed under the weight of his heavy rucksack. On level ground, he managed very well but the moment they traversed a hill or ridge, he grunted with exertion and pain. A few of his comrades attempted to alleviate his stress by taking some of his wargear. But the young Whiteshield refused their aid. Observing his determination, Marsh Silas felt very proud.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“You know what helps me on a long march?” he whispered to the young man. “Whenever the going gets tough, I imagine Kasr Polaris on the other side of a hill or just around the bend of a road. That always makes the next few steps a bit easier.”
Yeardley looked forward again and his brows knitted with determination despite the daunting hill.
“Home is on the other side,” he said bravely and pushed himself harder.
“Aye. Perhaps, when this operation is all said and done, the Emperor will bless us with furlough. If it’s long enough, we'll visit Kasr Polaris for a time. Wouldn’t that be somethin’, lad?”
“I should like nothing more, Staff Sergeant, if only my friends could come as well.”
“I suppose I had to see it sometime,” Graeme said. Against Yeardley’s protests, the smaller Whiteshield took off the wounded man’s rucksack and threw the straps over the front of his shoulders. Holding his M36 by his side and with his own pack, Graeme became a shuffling bulk. Despite the heavy weight and his small stature, he seemed quite pleased with himself. Marsh Silas was, too.
Contented that the Whiteshields were in good order, Marsh walked out to the left flank of the column. Snell, a trooper in 3rd Squad, served as a skirmisher. An experienced man who was a keen shot and a decent scout, he was a natural pick for the job. One might not have thought so because of his barrel chest and heavy footsteps. But he could move quickly and quietly despite his stature. Tapping him on the shoulder, Marsh motioned for him to rejoin the column. Snell nodded and allowed the platoon sergeant to take his place.
Holding his M36 by the grip in his right hand, he allowed the weapon to rest by its sling. On long marches, he liked to keep at least one hand free so it wouldn’t tire from holding a weapon for so long. Marsh breathed in deeply, taking in the crisp night air. Removed from the coast, the air here smelled incredibly clear. When he exhaled, he felt something seemingly pull away from his body and escape his throat. A cloud of dust gathered beside him and took the form of a man. Barlocke’s fragment appeared, his head low and his hat pulled over his eyes. The collar of his flowing black coat was buttoned up so it covered his lower face.
Marsh Silas hastily looked at the column but Barlocke’s coal-colored eye shifted towards him. He winked handsomely.
“Worry not, they may only see me if I allow them to.”
“This reminds me of our long walks on Army’s Meadow and our forays along the coast,” Marsh Silas said wistfully. “Those were the days, eh?”
“And far from now, you will look back upon this occasion and remark, ‘those were the days.’ All memories become sweeter than the last.”
“Yep, just like the old times,” Marsh remarked tiredly.
“Your words to young Yeardly, they remind me of our resolve to visit Kasr Sonnen once more after the riad. Are you drawing upon such words so as to bolster the Whiteshield’s courage, for you have never thought of home on such occasions.”
“O’ course I have,” the platoon sergeant muttered, rolling his eyes.
“I reside inside you. I see all, or at least very much. Not once have I seen any talk of Polaris in regards to a bad march in recent times. Please, do not argue against someone who lives amongst your thoughts.”
“I was trying to inspire the lad. It worked, didn’t it? It is no lie to fret over.” The ghost clicked his tongue in a condescending manner. “Enough o’ that, I don’t need to be hearing no noise outta yer mouth like that.”
“Oh, am I bothering you? One thousand pardons, please, for I grow quite restless sequestered away within your skull,” Barlocke said, half-teasing but half exasperated. “When are we going to get to this enemy hive? I have sifted through memories upon memories again and again!”
“Ain’t ye found something new yet? If I’ve forgotten something, surely you can find it.”
“Well, how stimulating,” Barlocke snidely replied. “You forgot your extra set of boot laces back at Army’s Meadow.”
“Fuck off, no I did not!” The Inquisitor’s fragment nodded.
His old friend responded only with a laugh. Scoffing, Marsh set his gaze straight ahead. The pair walked together for a time. Even though he knew it was only a visage of the man he once knew beside him, it was comforting to have him there.
“If I were to remain among the living, I could look all the way back to the beginning of your life when you were but a babe. Alas, I am but the fragment, a single shard of a soul, a fracture from a mind, now woven together with your own. My power is not what it once was; I can delve deep but I’ve not enough strength to unlock such dormant memories. I will depart, dear Silvanus: Hyram approaches.”
Like dust caught in the wind, Barlocke faded away. Looking up, Marsh saw a figure coming towards him from the head of the still marching column. Just as Barlocke said, it was Lieutenant Hyram. The commanding officer came up and put a hand on the platoon sergeant’s shoulder. With his other hand, he pointed to the north.
“On the other side of this ridge we’ll be coming across about one hundred meters of open ground leading to the closest enemy stronghold. Let’s reform into a line and hold position on the crest of the ridge.”
At once, Marsh Silas filtered through the column and assisted the platoon leader. Bloody Platoon eased out of formation and filed into a horizontal line. Hyram moved ahead and with a single wave, ushered them to the top. As they ascended the ridge, they stooped to a half-crouch, then went prone as they reached the top. Across an empty barren field lay their objective: it was like an insect mound, rising gradually out of the land. Its cone-shaped top was surrounded by layers of earth and was marked by many lone rocks. Although it stood alone, it looked like many of the low hills and grades which Bloody Platoon passed by or over during their foray into the hinterland.
Laying between Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen, Marsh observed the enemy bastion through his magnoculars. He could not see any entrances on the southern side. No guards patrolled the grounds either. As soon as Hyram made the same observation he lowered his own set and shook his head. “I don’t like it. Should they not be out if they use night as a cover for their movement? Surely, they would take this opportunity to come above ground.”
“There is no understanding of the heretic, mutant, cultist, or traitor,” Carstensen whispered back. “If they are anything like the vermin we fought at Kasr Fortis or at the Cove, then they must crave their inner recesses.” She examined the hive through Marsh’s magnoculars and was careful not to choke him with the cord. After a brief examination, she handed them back. “It stands to reason that having wiped out so many of their raiding parties, we may have thinned their ranks.”
“Then there is no better time to strike!” Marsh hissed.
“Let us not trade confidence for foolishness,” Hyram warned. “But we can remain no longer. The platoon will advance rapidly and encircle the mound. We’ll sweep for an entrance.”
The word was passed to the squad leaders and spread to the troops. Upon Hyram’s word, the entire platoon rose and ran down the opposite slope of the ridge. Charging across open ground, under moonlight and without screaming was a very eerie experience. Marsh’s only spike of fear appeared during this moment. As he bounded along, listening to the thunderous footsteps of his many comrades, he could not find a reason why he was scared. Was it his soldier’s instincts hesitating at the thought of moving across open ground? Or was it because the enemy hive was far bigger than it appeared from the opposite ridge? The closer he approached, the taller it seemed. Looming over him, it seemed like a dark, curved wall ready to collapse upon him.
Marsh Silas was glad when they finally reached the base of the mound. Around him, the other Guardsmen looped around the flanks and the encirclement was complete A sudden stillness took hold of Bloody Platoon as they waited for the enemy to make contact. Everyone trained their weapons on the slopes of the hill but no enemies showed themselves. Minutes ticked by without any sound or movement.
Knowing they were losing precious time, Hyram stood up. “Begin searching. Be cautious and go nowhere alone.”
Like insects returning to their subterranean home, they combed the slope. Marsh found himself prodding loose stones with his bayonet or digging slightly in patches of disturbed Cadian earth. He removed scrub bushes and roots, trying to find a hidden entrance. He cleared away the top layers in depressions and pits in the hopes of finding a trapdoor. Nothing manifested, not even at the top. Everyone struggled to find an entrance, eager to be the first in their silent contest. As hard as Marsh searched, it was Logue and Foley who found the way in.
Hyram issued a rally order on the micro-bead. Marsh went to the northern side of the slope. Halfway down, where the land leveled into an inconspicuous shelf guarded by stones and scraggly country shrubs, the two Guardsmen stood in front of an open entrance. Some of the nearby Whiteshields attempted to raise their lamp-packs to look down the tunnel, but Clivvy quickly stopped them.
The platoon command squad gathered around. Hyram rubbed his chin as he gazed down the dark tunnel. “We don’t know if they’re aware of our presence. If we send the whole platoon in, it may very well be a slaughter.”
“So we’ll send in some scouts,” Marsh said. “Typical tunnel clearin’ doctrine. A few men steal in, stickin’ to the shadows, and clear it with dagger and pistol. They’ll give us a foothold.”
Hyram grimaced. He did not want to pick the men for the duty. Marsh did not see that as a weakness. It was a burden a humanitarian man like Hyram did not like to make. For him, victory was not just measured by the magnitude of the enemy’s defeat. Mission success was also determined by how many men he brought home alive. To delve into a tunnel was one of the most dangerous duties for a Guardsman on Cadia. But it had to be done.
Before the Lieutenant or platoon sergeant could make their decision, Foley stepped forward.
“Seein’ as I’m the one who found the tunnel, I’ll go.”
“As will I,” Logue said, jerking his thumb towards the entrance. “We’ve got the right weapons for it.”
“You know there’s a good chance you may not come back out,” Hyram warned them. Logue and Foley exchanged a glance, then smiled at the Lieutenant.
“Got it, sir,” they said in unison. Hyram nodded stiffly. Both men doffed their rucksacks and excess wargear. Each checked their weapons; Foley was equipped with an autopistol and double-barreled shotgun while Logue carried his custom autopistol. Equipped with an extended buttstock, a holographic sight, a forward grip, and lengthened barrel, it was an excellent weapon for close quarters battle. Both men repositioned their scabbards on their webbing so their trench knives were easier to reach.
Both men knelt, made the sign of the Aquila, and prayed. Marsh stood adjacent to them and watched proudly. Carstensen stood in front of the two men and murmured another prayer. Once they finished, they shook the hands of their leaders and embraced a number of their friends in the platoon. Finally, the duo knocked their fists together and crept into the tunnel. Instantly, they vanished in the darkness.
Marsh Silas rounded up the Whiteshields to patrol the area while Hyram arrayed Bloody Platoon in a perimeter around the enemy hive. Everyone dug in as best they could with sentries monitoring both the area around the mound and sweeping the hill for more entrances.
Descending the eastern slope, he found another shelf cut into the hillside There was nothing but a large rock embedded into the side of the hill. For a few moments, he studied it to see if it was a disguise. Digging into the ground around it with his bayonet point, he found the earth naturally packed and undisturbed. Having seen plenty like it, he decided not to perform a thorough search. While he waited for the Whiteshields to catch up, he turned around and leaned against the rock. With the mission tempo dying down and his adrenaline settling, he became more aware of how footsore he was. Putting his weight against the rock, he sighed as he felt the pressure come off his soles.
There was a crumbling noise. Marsh’s eyes bulged as the rock gave way and earth fell around him. Before he could even reach out, he was on his back and sputtering as dirt landed in his eyes and mouth. Covering his face, he expected something to collapse on him. When nothing fell, he lowered his arms and looked around. The rock, which was not very thick, had fallen back into a tunnel.
“Staff Sergeant,” he heard Clivvy whisper. Still on his back, he looked up; on the slope above the shelf, the Whiteshields stared down at him. “What happened?”
“I found another tunnel,” Marsh replied and heard Barlocke scoff loudly. ‘Found,’ is a very strong word. ‘Fell into a hole by mistake,’ is a much better way to describe it. “Shut up,” the platoon sergeant hissed. All I’m saying is—look out!
Marsh Silas raised his head just as a heretic swung a machete at him. He rolled out and brought his M36 to bear, but the attacker knocked the barrel away before he could trust with his bayonet. Graeme, Yeardley, and Rayden jumped down simultaneously with the first Whiteshield landing right on the enemy. Pinning him, they silently butchered the man with their knives. Clivvy ordered her other squad members to cover the entrance while she and Webley patted him down for wounds.
“You’re all set, sir,” Webley replied. “That was close.”
“Too close,” Marsh added. “But you’re all a little too fast for some ragtag traitor.”
Graeme, Yeardley, and Rayden beamed at this comment. Rowley called Hyram and Carstensen over, both of whom checked in on the platoon sergeant before inspecting the tunnel.
“We can use this entrance to send in more troopers to support Foley and Logue,” Hyram said. “If any defenders lie within, they’ll be forced to respond in multiple directions. This time, it will be you and I, Staff Sergeant.”
Marsh shook his head and thumped his friend on his chestplate.
“No, sir. This platoon can’t lose you, but me on the other hand, you’ve got plenty o’ good men to pick from for a new sergeant. I’ll go in alone.”
“No man goes anywhere alone.”
“Then send me with him,” Yeardley said.
“Me,” Graeme said, brandishing his knife.
“Or me,” Soames said.”
“Any of us,” Clivvy said, standing in front of her assembled Whiteshields. Hyram looked at them apprehensively. Marsh swelled with pride at seeing his pupils rise to the occasion once more. This was not bluster or bravado. Each one was determined to go in to complete this mission. They did not covet medals nor glory—they wished to help their brother soldiers.
“Very well,” Hyram acquiesced. “Marsh Silas, do you have a soldier in mind?”
“I’ll take Yeardley.”
The grenadier limped forward, grinning. But his friend Graeme stepped out, too.
“Take me instead, Staff Sergeant. Yeardley is walking wounded. It will hinder him in a bad scrap. I’m in good shape and I’m small, I can fit in those tunnels better than anyone.” He flipped his knife into the air, caught it with his other hand, and spun it his palm before flicking it back into his other hand. “And you know I’m terrific in close quarters. I will go into that darkness with you, as only a true Cadian would.”
He might have been the shortest but he may have been the bravest. Hyram seemed emotional, his violet eyes glimmering in the fleeting moonlight. Wordlessly, he approached the Whiteshield and held by his shoulder plate.
“I shall say the same to you, Guardsman: you might not come back.”
“I got it, sir,” Graeme said. Hyram smiled and pulled him away from Graeme. He approached Marsh and stood in close.
“Those are your Whiteshields, alright.”
“We trained them well,” Marsh Silas whispered back, clapping his friend on the shoulder. Then, he grew resolute and doffed most of his wargear. “Alright, Graeme, it is you and me. Tonight, we are crawlers and dangerous ones at that.”
Graeme eagerly dropped his wargear and repositioned his weaponry on his webbing. Marsh left his M36 and 9-70, opting instead to take the Ripper Pistol, shotgun, and trench knife. Taking a few autopistol magazines from his comrades, Graeme detached the bayonet from his M36 lug and wielded it as a combat knife. Together, both men knelt and said their prayers together. When they stood, they embraced. Marsh also shared a brotherly embrace with Hyram. When he turned around, Carstensen gazed at him.
Everything he wanted to do at that moment was unacceptable. Too many eyes were on them. So he smiled and turned but something halted him. It was like an unseen wall coming up before him. An invisible hand guided him back. He clutched Carstensen’s wrist and squeezed tightly. She did the same, her thumb running over the faded scars her nails left in the skin of his wrist at Kasr Fortis. His violet eyes met her blue-green gaze; it was an intense connection, conveying that bottled up emotion which they wanted to share so badly, knowing this might be the last moment.
He forced himself to let go. Nodding at Graeme, Marsh Silas pressed onward into the black tunnel.