Marsh Silas clambered down a scaling ladder that was bolted to a new shaft into the first heretical nexus he, Logue, Foley, and the late Graeme captured. At the bottom, he found himself among makeshift models of the surrounding area and Colonel Isaev’s staff. The retinue of officers were busily examining the tabletops and taking numerous notes in their data-slates. Priests and other Ecclesiarchy personnel had finished purifying the location earlier in the day. They were standing by and reciting incantations for added effect. All the treasonous and heretical symbology was gone. Now, holy incense burned in countless clay pots and pans bearing emblems and semblances of the Emperor and the Imperial Creed. But there were no banners bearing the pale winged skull of the Astra Militarum or the standards of the 1333rd Regiment. Isaev did not plan to make this place his command post, no matter how cleansed it was.
Arnold Yoxall hopped down behind him as well as Drummer Boy. After a few moments, Captain Giles, Lieutenant Hyram, and Junior Commissar Carstensen appeared from the crowd.
“This way, Staff Sergeant,” the former said. He led the party down the tunnel Foley and Logue burst from during the assault. Everything was well lit by burning torches and spare lamp packs. Taking the first turn on the right side, they eventually went downwards and came to the mouth of another tunnel. This was different from any of the constructions Marsh Silas encountered while in the enemy nexus. It was taller and much wider; by no means a Cadian tunnel, but it was well-built, as if to a standard.
On either side were two Guardsmen who faced the tunnel entrance rather than guarding it from within. Both looked very pale and uneasy. Hyram and Marsh immediately took out their lamp packs and shined them down the tunnel. But the reach of the beams did not pierce very far into that darkness.
Giles took off his low-peaked, khaki colored, black-billed officer’s cap and ran his hand over his blonde locks. “While we have a great deal of intelligence regarding the location of the enemy’s stronghold, what we lack are accurate maps of the tunnels. 2nd Company seized four of the other enemy redoubts yesterday but some of the filthy heretics launched a surprise attack through a tunnel similar to this one. Seven men lost their lives.”
He put his hat back on and leaned against the timber. Marsh Silas and Hyram turned off their lights. “We have reason to believe that the countryside between these smaller bases and the enemy’s stronghold is laced with tunnels, specifically these ones. I ordered Lieutenant Comstock to send a squad to reconnoiter this one in the hopes we could accurately depict the enemy’s network. That was yesterday evening. They were due back this morning.”
Marsh glanced at his wrist-chrono; it was nearly midday.
“Sir, permission to take Bloody Platoon in and find them?” Hyram asked.
“Permission denied,” Giles said gravely. “That comes from the Colonel himself. He believes that the enemy is preparing an underground defense. We can assume these tunnels are rife with traps and strong redoubts. After all, the enemy knows these tunnels better than we do. And after the Battle of the Cove, he does not want to rush in again.”
“So we are to merely leave a whole squad to their doom in this tunnel?” Marsh asked quietly.
“What are the lives of ten men against sixty?” Giles asked him firmly. “We don’t make sacrifices for the few but for the many. We are Cadians: we are the few, and the men who went into that tunnel knew what was expected of them. Not all of us receive a glorious death in the throes of mortal combat on an open battlefield.” The company commander closed his eyes, inhaled, and recovered. “We cannot risk more men in search of a few. We will need every single one for this overland attack. As for this nexus and the others we have captured, they are slated for demolition.”
Although the ground proved to be an excellent staging area for raids as well as a command post, nobody really wanted to occupy these heretical strongholds. Marsh Silas agreed they should be destroyed for the preservation of their souls. On the tactical level, they were too dangerous to leave as they were; the enemy could use them to launch attacks into their rear during the attack. Sparing troops to hold them would deplete manpower for the assault.
Giles pointed at Arnold Yoxall and waved him forward. “What’s say you?”
Yoxall quickly inspected the tunnel entrance, then stepped over to the walls and felt them with his hands. Bending over, he examined one of the smaller tunnels they hadn’t used to reach their destination. After a silent minute, he stood back up with his arms akimbo.
“It can be done but I alone don’t have enough explosives. While I ain’t exactly up to date on the Regiment’s stores o’ explosives, by my last count I estimate we can destroy about six or seven But that still leaves quite a few. We’ll need more explosives and I reckon we need engineers, too.”
Giles smiled and tipped his hat back.
“Count your blessings this is Cadia, man: we have plenty of both.”
***
It had taken nearly two days for the 1333rd Regiment’s infantry, supporting personnel, and the majority of its supplies to arrive at the temporary camp outside the nexus. During that time, Bloody Platoon was ordered to stand down so they could rest and rearm. Garrisoning the camp was light duty compared to the weeks of rough camping, nighttime rambling, and intense, closely-fought ambushing. In the meantime, the other, fresher units targeted the other subterranean lairs. For the next week, these tunnel networks were stormed, cleared, and seized by brave Cadians. One by one, they fell into Imperial hands. The heretics made a few strong counterattacks through the tunnels and quite a number of feeble attempts, too. All failed as the 1333rd continued to gather its strength.
Now, to ensure they would have the best chances against the enemy, Colonel Isaev called for reinforcements. Word quickly spread that reinforcements were on the way; the 95th Cadian Regiment, known as the Nine-Fivers, and the 217th Cadian Mechanized Regiment—the Blazers—were going to join them soon. Everyone was excited; the 95th was similar to the 1333rd as they had never left Cadian soil. But they were a distinguished regiment who were steadfast on the defense and aggressive on the offense. On the other hand, the 217th Mechanized was a newly formed regiment piecemealed together from the survivors of the 2139th, 499th, and 1567th shattered earlier that year and two combat ineffective regiments, the 35th Armored and 203rd Mechanized. While the majority of personnel could be counted upon to be experienced, they had not yet fought a battle as a regiment. Nonetheless, the men of Bloody Platoon and the rest of the 1333rd were pleased with these reinforcements. Personnel from the Departmento Munitorum’s Engineer Corps arrived to help deal with the demolition of the enemy sites. While the Engineer Corps primarily dealt with construction projects, the Cadian branch of the Corps was more diverse in its duties and possessed a more offensive edge. Demolition experts like Arnold Yoxall went to train with them in all aspects of military engineering and explosives.
While engineers, parties of laborers, servitors, and Adeptus Mechanicus Enginseers toiled, Marsh Silas oversaw the distribution of the platoon’s wargear which was left behind at Army’s Meadow. Everyone was glad to have their full sets of Flak Armor back as well as many of their armaments. Although it was expected of them to remain groomed, most of the men did not shave or trim their hair. After spending so much time out in the hinterland, they were quite proud of their grizzled faces and toned physiques. This hid the fact many of them lost weight during the past few weeks; lots of marching combined with limited rations consumed much of their fat stores. Some even lost muscle weight and looked a little skinnier than before.
Marsh Silas was glad not to have lost any of his strength and the fat he built up after spending a number of months garrisoned in Army’s Meadow was gone. But he found himself less energetic and sought solitude when he could get it. Graeme continued to weigh heavily on his mind and although Bloody Platoon appeared to be in strong spirits, he knew a number were dwelling on it as well. Hyram was aware too and ordered that none of the enlisted men were to go anywhere without at least one other soldier. Having a constant companion would keep men focused on their tasks.
For a time, he watched the delegation of engineers confer with Colonel Isaev and Captain Giles. As they spoke, the former’s staff began leaving the hive via the new shaft. Like a throng of insects, they bustled down the slopes and dispersed among the tents. The sight did not distract him from his thoughts, so he decided to busy himself with a task. It was sometimes difficult to do so; veterans like him were efficient soldiers and completed their duties quickly. Sometimes, there wasn’t enough to do while encamped and such idleness could be as threatening as a heretic bullet or an upset Commissar.
Making his rounds through the platoon, he was greeted with bright smiles, affectionate thumps on his chestplate, and salutes. He nodded back as best he could, stepping between the rows of tents and fighting holes. Eventually, he came to a few pits where the Whiteshields stayed. All were present and accounted for, huddled around a campfire in the center of the ring of holes. They were warming up their rations and sipping recaf. All were dull, sullen, pale-faced, dreary-eyed, and silent.
“Why don’t I slide in here with ya,” Marsh said, shouldering his M36 and sitting on the top of the nearest pit.
“Would ya like a brew, Staff Sergeant?” Sergeant Clivvy asked.
“Keep it for yourself,” Marsh said kindly. He looked around, gauging those sorrowful faces. Apart from the others was Yeardley, sitting in the deepest reach of the fighting hole to the right of the fire. Marsh shifted his spot over a little and slid down the embankment. Yeardley did not acknowledge him or make any motion that indicated he was aware of the platoon sergeant. Instead, he stared ahead at the opposite wall of the hole.
Rayden slid into the hole along with Merton and Rowley. Merton sat on Yeardley’s other side and put his arm around him. Grasping his shoulders, he jostled the young man a few times. Still, the Whiteshield said and did nothing. It seemed like he wasn’t even blinking.
Merton looked up, his brows furrowed and eyes worried.
“He’s beatin’ himself up over Graeme. Figures that if he wudn’t wounded, he coulda gone in and Graeme would still be alive.”
“Now, son, don’t be thinkin’ like that,” Marsh said soothingly. He searched for something to say, his lips moving and his violet eyes wandering. Unable to conjure anything up, he tried to recall the few words he and Graeme shared while they were in the tunnels. Perhaps, there was something among those whispers he could use to inspire Yeardley or at least relieve him of his guilt. But all that he kept coming back to was the dry quip: I think I should have let Yeardley come with you instead.
Marsh cleared his throat and laughed a little. “Graeme was happy to go in thar for ya. You two were mates and he was ready to give his life not just for the Emperor, but for you.”
He recalled the lie he spun with Asiah and the coastal folk they rescued a year ago. Although this was a half-truth, it still roiled in his gut like spoiled meat. Part of being a Cadian soldier was holding oneself to a higher standard than a poor conscript on some random backwater planet in the vast reaches of the Imperium. Telling the truth was part of those core tenets Cadians and especially Shock Troopers held themselves to. Throughout his life, there were few occasions where Marsh felt forced to violate that one rule. But there was always a justification, such as warding off a bloodthirsty Commissar or a stuffy officer from another Regiment coming by to make an inspection who would report an enlisted man for not having cleaned his weapon yet.
In those instances, Marsh reasoned with himself he did a little good by not telling the truth. But here, it made him feel very low indeed. It appeared all for naught as well; Yeardley did not react to it at all.
When the young man didn’t speak, Rayden crept forward and knelt in front of him.
“We all miss’em, comrade, but what we got to do is make most o’ his sacrifice. Ain’t that right, Marsh Silas?”
“Exactly right. When a fellow soldier gives up his life for ya, you take that opportunity and repay it tenfold.”
“Aye, he would want you to live on and be the best soldier ya can be,” Rayden comforted, smiling reassuringly.
“And he would have wanted you to find things to smile about,” Rowley said affectionately, flashing a compassionate smirk.
Again, there was that flicker inside, the very same he felt when Graeme decided to take point and cross the gap. Marsh looked down a little, his crooked lips tugging into a smile. How these Whiteshields made him proud; they were even better at his job than he was. At that moment, he believed deeply they would go farther than he ever would.
Yeardley finally looked up, his violet eyes glimmering in the sunlight. Sniffing very hard, he wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve and folded his arms across his chest. Marsh dug into his pocket and pulled out one of Graeme’s dog tags. When he searched the boy’s body he found a second set. One tag stayed with the body, another was sent up to regimental command, but he kept the spares.
He reached across Yeardley and took one of his hands. They were small in his own palm. Using his thumb, he opened the Whiteshield’s fingers and placed the two tags into them. Finally, the young man looked at them. At first, his expression was angry but this quickly subsided. His eyes seemed to search for something and then he smiled weakly.
“If me an’ him was swapped right now, I don’t think I’d want Graeme sittin’ here feeling down on himself.”
“Right. Graeme would want us to keep goin’ no matter what happens,” Rayden put in.
“We’re Cadians, after all, and we don’t quit over nothing’,” Merton said confidently.
“We’re going to be Shock Troopers one day,” chimed Rowley. “That’d please Graeme most of all, don’t ya agree?”
“Surely,” Marsh said, grunting as he stood up. “But ain’t none o’ you gonna become no Shock Troopers if you keep loafing in these here holes. Out with ya, eat your rations, and get to work.”
He did his best to sound boisterous and this had the desired effect. The other Whiteshields seemed to brighten up and Yeardley finally came out of the fighting hole. Conversation resumed, there was a clear sign of motivation in their movements, and they even regaled each other with stories about Graeme. These were lost on Marsh Silas but he still managed to smile at the little tales of the Whiteshields’ escapades, close calls, and run-ins with brutal instructors while they were mere trainees.
After staying with them for a few minutes more, and feeling in better spirits himself, he decided to go. It would be better for his morale too if he could keep busy. By the Emperor’s blessing, he didn’t have to search for too long. Lieutenant Hyram came prowling through camp and happened upon the platoon sergeant.
“Come along, Captain Giles has need of us.”
They didn’t just find the company commander on the edge of the camp. Standing with him was Colonel Isaev, First Lieutenant Eastoft, an officer from the Engineer Corps, and Ordinate of the Adeptus Administratum
Hyram and Marsh Silas stood at attention and saluted. The gestures were returned. Giles knelt and placed a map over a flat stone resting on the ground. “This is our location. The engineers have correlated the locations of the outer ring of defenses and the heretic’s lair and marked them.” A series of red X’s marked the spots with a larger one in the center. “Colonel Isaev has informed me that he cannot bring up armor or artillery for the assault and the 217th Mechanized is having difficulty crossing the terrain. There are no roads out here. We don’t have the time to pave a new one and an airlift at this time is not feasible because of our timetables.”
“Our infantry airlift took long enough as it is,” Colonel Isaev grunted. The aged Regimental Commander was more quiet than usual, Marsh noticed. The way ke kept his arms folded across his chest made him seem withdrawn. Dissatisfaction, even disinterest, permeated his expression.
“The engineers propose a stout wooden road. By no means conventional but any good engineer is one who can improvise. The Emperor blessed this soil with a wide thicket three kilometers to the northeast. If that location is secured, it is estimated that there will be enough wood to build a road strong enough to carry a Leman Russ and long enough to connect to the MSR.”
Giles rose and gazed at the Colonel expectantly. Isaev nodded approvingly and the Captain tapped Hyram on the front of his helmet.
“Lieutenant, rally your men and proceed at once to that wood. You will be the forward element. Once you have seized it, I will send the rest of 1st Company forward with the engineers.”
***
Marsh Silas was just outside the column of briskly marching troops. Everyone kept their weapons raised at a low-ready position—the barrel still pointed at the ground but with the buttstock pressed firmly into their shoulders. Helmets bobbed back and forth as Shock Troopers scanned their surroundings. Those in the rearguard kept turning and walking backwards for a few paces to ensure they weren’t being followed.
The toils of the last few weeks were beginning to show themselves on the men’s faces. Used to sleeping by day and moving at night, Bloody Platoon moved a little sluggishly as they reorientated themselves. Many wore orange-tinted ballistic goggles, snapping them into the visor attachment of their helmets or simply attaching the bands to wrap them around their heads. Dark bags lingered under their eyes and they blinked a lot. Despite two days of garrison duty on a normal sleeping schedule, they still hadn’t gotten used to it. A few days more would correct the issue; this wasn’t their first time engaging in such an operation, after all.
The area along the eastern ring of heretic defenses was characterized by less rocks, crags, and ridges. All the slopes and rises were far more gentle. It made traversing the ground much easier and fluid. But Bloody Platoon was wary of the enemy hilltops and tunnels on their left flank. This was mitigated to some degree by elements from other companies securing them. Every so often, a party of tunnel fighters delved into a dark cavern. Marsh Silas watched them go with some apprehension and did his best not to look too often.
“I pray the Emperor gives us a few targets to shoot at. These past days have been rather boring,” Tattersall complained.
“Pray for protection and guidance, comrade, the enemy is in plentiful supply,” Rayden said, turning slightly with his M36 raised a little higher.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Eyes front and muzzle discipline,” Sergeant Clivvy said shortly.
Marsh Silas smirked and looked ahead. There was a low berm about fifty meters ahead of them. Lieutenant Hyram, on point, raised his fist into the air to order a stop. Sweeping hand out to the side, he crouched down and the whole platoon followed suit. After checking his map, he scurried forward and eased to the top of the berm. For nearly a minute, he scanned the area on the other side with the scope of his M36. Finally, he turned halfway around and waved. NCOs roused the troopers and Bloody Platoon surged forward. Following Hyram’s outstretched arms, they formed two lines, one on either side of their commanding officer.
Getting to the top of the berm, Marsh saw there was about another fifty meters of level ground before they reached the woods. The trunks were richly brown or gray, thick, and very tall. Most of the lower branches were bare but the higher ones and the very tops were bushy with evergreen leaves and pine needles. Much of the ground among the trees was flat and grassy, rising in some spots and declining others. Like coils of barbed wire, thick bushes and hedges linked between some of the trees. Although the sun was shining, the wood itself remained darked. It created a pleasant allure.
Upon Hyram’s order, the Heavy Weapons Squads deployed only the berm and the adjacent rise on the left flank. Then, the remaining troops marched forward in a staggered line. Marsh kept the stock of his M36 against his shoulder as he approached. Bloody Platoon went from a brisk trot until they were halfway to the wood. They slowed down and remained hunched as they approached. When they reached the edge, they crouched down and found cover behind tree trunks and little mounds of earth. After spending another few minutes sweeping the wood, Hyram led the way in.
Everyone moved deliberately, their feet falling slowly on the grass. Guardsmen avoided twigs and fallen branches as best they could. Men crouched under fallen trees, carefully vaulted over logs, and ducked under low hanging branches. On the flanks and in the rear, troopers turned around and around, scanning the environment with their M36’s. Occasionally, they came across a curious clump of leaves or some kind of disturbance in the grass. First, they prodded the oddity with their bayonet, then they checked the immediate area around it, and then investigated with their hands.
Marsh found one little pile of leaves and slid his bayonet into it. Sweat ran down his cheeks despite the nippy winter air. His lips parted slightly and his breathing remained shallow. Outwardly, he appeared calm but his heartbeat thumped in his eardrums. He was expecting a grenade to go off or some kind of trap to spring on him. Heretics were very clever in their creation of traps or roadside bombs. But nothing happened even after he checked the ground around the little pile. Crouching, he reached forward and brushed the leaves away from each other. Beneath them was nothing but moist, grassy ground.
Exhaling in relief, he continued walking. Glancing over his shoulder, he found Carstensen a few paces away. She stared at him intensely. When he caught her aquamarine gaze, he smiled and nodded. Her response was a little smile and then she kept moving forward, her Bolt Pistol in front of her and her power fist resting on her chestplate.
Passing through the little rays of sunlight breaking through the wood’s thin canopy, Bloody Platoon kept walking until they reached the other side. Then they swept towards the right side until they came to the edge. Finally, they went all the way back to the left. Nobody found any signs of the enemy. When Marsh Silas came up to Hyram, the Lieutenant tilted his helmet back and shrugged.
“I don’t like it. Let’s keep our weapons squads on the ridge for cover and let’s spread out as best we can. Once the company arrives in full I’ll feel more at ease.”
“Aye, sir.”
Marsh Silas didn’t even have to give the order, Bloody Platoon was already dispersing. Squad leaders placed their troops in a tight, square cordon as they lacked enough men to defend the edges of the wood. While half stood guard, the other half equipped their 9-70’s and dug fighting holes. “Just stick together,” Marsh ordered, “nobody goes anywhere without at least one other man.”
Hyram came up to him and bumped his shoulder against the platoon sergeant’s. He added a cheeky grin for effect.
“That includes you, Staff Sergeant.” Hyram shouldered his M36 and rested his arm on Marsh’s shoulder. “Or perhaps you would prefer the Junior Commissar as your partner?”
Marsh Silas quickly snapped his attention towards his commanding officer and felt his entire face turn red all the way up to his ears. Within his mind, he heard Barlocke gasp and it felt like a gust of wind sweeping through his skull. Oh no, he figured it out! Resisting the urge to tell the fragment to be silent, the platoon sergeant tried to speak but only croaked. Clearing his throat, he quickly looked around to make sure no one else was looking. Then, he leaned in close.
“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on between me an’ Lilas.” Marsh squeezed his eyes shut and could have hit himself over the head.
“Lilias? How informal,” Hyram joked, his smirk turning into a rather obnoxious sneer. “You must have a death wish, falling not only for a woman who outranks you but could punish you for any infraction.”
Marsh wrinkled his nose, the adhesive bandage covering the bridge bunching up as he did.
“She ain’t like that.”
“We shall see. By the Emperor’s grace, Bloody Platoon has not given her an excuse to do such a thing.” He sighed and looked up at the sky through the wooded canopy. Breathing in, he seemed as calm and pleasant as if he were taking a stroll down a Kasr walkway. Afterwards, he faced Marsh again and stared at him knowingly. At first, the platoon sergeant was annoyed by the Lieutenant’s knowing gaze but eventually his own eyes fell. He couldn’t stay mad. “Yer just trying to keep my mind occupied, aren’t you? Because of young Graeme?”
“You did all you could to equip and prepare him. But war has a way of undoing all we work for. He was a good man and he was fortunate to have you as a teacher. He survived that long and performed that well thanks to you. All death weighs heavily on us but we must not let it consume us. So, speak to me of Lilias.”
Knowing there was no way out of the conversation and there was no harm indulging in it, he acquiesced with a sigh. Tipping his helmet back, he looked around again as more Guardsmen passed by. Finding his voice once more, he looked at Hyram straight on.
“Ain’t no one more surprised about it than me an’ her, sir. It just sorta happened, I suppose. It’s been on my mind since we fought our first battles together. She’s just so brave, she’s dedicated, she wants to be the best soldier she can be. We have that in common, I suppose. She wants to change the Imperium too and forge Commissars and officers who will not abuse their men. Lilias wants to make life better for those around us and create a brighter, better future, just like me.” He smiled softly. “But it’s not just those high ideals which unite. Constantly, we find ourselves in odd circumstances, but nothing about it feels odd. Everything has been so pleasant. It fills up my chest with a windy feeling.”
He chuckled a little as he tugged his pipe out of his pocket. “Must sound foolish. But I ain’t ever felt this way about no woman before. I ain’t too sure what she sees in a soldier like me. I get the feelin’ ol’ Barlocke mighta planted some kind of thought about me in her head.”
Well, that’s where you’re wrong my—
“Well, there’s where you’re wrong, chap,” Hyram said, delighted. Marsh blinked and he heard Barlocke make a sound like he was clicking his tongue. Well now, that was strange. Perhaps dear Hyram is a psyker. ‘Really?’ Marsh thought, his eyes flitting upwards as if his old friend were standing above him. Of course not, I would have figured that out very quickly. Hush, I’d like to hear this.
Hyram took out a lho-stick of his own, lit it with a match, and took short drags on it. “It’s not foolish. She’s had much on her mind as well. Like you, she doesn't know what to do about it. We sat for a time not too long ago to speak of it. We talked about the nature of duty, of what it means to be a soldier and a servant of the Emperor, and is it selfish to want something so small as companionship.”
The Lieutenant tapped him on his chestplate. “Do you know why this feeling is so foreign for both of you? Because it is love, it is romance, something you’ve never felt before. Consider you and Lilas blessed by the Emperor. Your feelings are earnest and genuine, like two children having grown so fond of one another. I was not so fortunate. My wife was chosen for me.”
“But there is love between you?”
“I would say there is a cordial companionship and acceptable affection,” was the response. Hyram nodded his head to the side. “We both love our son and that can bind two souls in a splendid way.”
He finished his lho-stick, flicked it onto a bare patch of earth, stamped on it with his booted foot, and stopped leaning on Marsh Silas. Turning around, he flashed him a brotherly smile. “No priest I am, but I think the Emperor would be pleased with two loyal, faithful souls coming together as you have, so long as you respect one another’s stations and ranks, especially when in garrison. If it helps, you have my express permission as your commanding officer to court one another.”
Adding a wink and bumping his fist against the Staff Sergeant’s shoulder, he said, “For the good of the regiment, you see.”
Hyram departed to inspect the lines. Marsh Silas smoked his pipe and leaned against a tree. His crooked smile grew. He was never more grateful to the Emperor for bestowing him with a friend like Seathan Randolph Hyram. The affections between himself and Lilias, it seemed, were but a few more of His divine gifts.
As smoke swirled in his lungs, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The Emperor had a way of lightening men’s hearts when they grew heavy. What a privilege, what a joy, to be a Cadian he thought to himself. He listened to the sweet sounds of his homeworld; the distant thunder of Earthshaker rounds falling on the enemy, the martial tramp of approaching reinforcements, the boisterous, hardy voices of Shock Troopers, and even the cool wind whistling through the leaves over his head. It was all too good even after such hard days.
Pop! Pop! Two autopistol reports forced Marsh to crouch. Every Shock Trooper in Bloody Platoon hit the deck. Marsh emptied his pipe and stowed before bringing his M36 up.
“Stay down, everyone stay down, who knows what these fools are trying to do,” Marsh growled as he moved through the woods. As he neared the edge of their perimeter, Merton emerged. He was wide eyed and his hair was matted with blood. It ran down the sides of his face and neck. With every breath he took, his entire body shuddered. The smoking autopistol in his right hand quivered.
Marsh Silas ran over to him and grabbed his face. “Medic!” he called. Hyram, Honeycutt, Carstensen, and other Whiteshields ran over. “Talk to me, son, tell me what happened.”
“We went farther out as pickets. Rayden started digging, I kept watch. Some heretics jumped me, hit me on my head. When I came to, they were dragging me away. They tried to get me but I got those fuckers first. I can’t find Rayden.”
“I think they took him like they did Graeme,” Merton started shaking and his expression grew dark. “No, no, no, not Rayden too. I can’t lose him, too!” He tore away from Honeycutt’s grip and hurried back the way he came.
“Shit. 1st and 2nd, hold your ground; Clivvy, Queshire, bring your men up! After him!”
The search party plunged through the woods. They came across the two bodies Merton left behind and found drag-trails nearby. The Whiteshields remained poised; they did not blubber or despair. All their brows knitted in determination and their purple, lavender, violet, and indigo gazes scanned the woods for their friend. But the further they went, the more Merton started to cry. He was a large lad, strong and rugged-looking despite his youth. But with his friend still missing, tears coursed down his cheeks. Marsh heard him whispering, ‘my fault, my fault, my fault,’ over and over again.
They went so far they approached the northwestern edge of the woods. Hyram raised his hand to indicate a change in direction, but Rowley gasped.
“Staff Sergeant, there’s something ahead!” They gathered around her while she picked up an olive drab helmet at the base of a tree. She read the name on the inner line. When she looked up, her eyes widened. “It’s his, sir.”
Merton scrambled over, ripped the helmet from her hands, and checked for himself. He released a few choked sobs.
“I looked away just for a few moments, just a few...”
“Marsh Silas, look ahead,” Yeardley said, pointing forwards. “There’s someone in that tree.”
Bloody Platoon cautiously advanced. As they drew closer to the edge of the woods, pushing through bushes, hedges, and scrub, a few shocked gasps passed between them. Marsh’s heart sank. Rayden’s corpse was hanging from a noose tied to the lowest, longest branch of a broad axel-tree. His hands were bound behind his back, his eyes bulged so badly they looked like they might fall out of the sockets, and his face was blue. He had been castrated; his genitals were stuffed into his mouth. The zipper of his blood-soaked trousers remained open, exposing the grisly remains. Hanging from his neck was a wooden placard with words painted in white on them: Beware, Bloody Platoon.
Everyone stared at the corpse. Merton fell to his knees and sobbed into his hands. Rowley looked away and Yeardley put his arm around her shoulders. Marsh gritted his teeth, ran his hand over his mouth, and turned around. Hyram angrily stared up at the body.
“Someone get up there and cut him down,” the Lieutenant ordered. Queshire doffed his wargear and placed a knife between his teeth. Rowley, Yeardley, Soames, and Webley helped him up the trunk. Once he was up on his own, the Whiteshields gathered around the corpse and held him up. Sliding onto the branch, Soames cut the noose and the others gently lowered him to the ground.
Merton was still crying. Marsh Silas and Hyram exchanged a fatigued glance. Perhaps, this was the occasion to say something inspiring or to make a lesson out of disaster. But their sorrowful eyes told one another neither had it in him to do. The platoon sergeant turned away and shook his head.
“Those fuckers,” he hissed through his teeth. Hyram came over and put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him away. “First Graeme, now Rayden? How many more of these kids am I going to get killed?”
“I need you to stay cool, Silas,” Hyram said coldly. He gripped Marsh by the back of his neck and held him tightly. “They need you to keep calm. You won’t serve anyone by losing your head. Get Merton out of here and keep him away from the body, I do not want anyone in the platoon seeing either of them in this state. Then, we’ll tighten the perimeter, because you and I both know they’re going to—”
Gunfire erupted. Bullets and lasbolts sliced through the air, thudded into trees, and cut so many pieces of bark off the trunks it seemed as though it was raining splinters. Everybody dove onto the ground and attempted to find cover. Marsh slid behind a tree and looked to the northwest. Heretics streamed across the small valley between the woods and one of the unsecured hilltops. They raised a shrill, bone-chilling war cry as they charged. From the berm the Heavy Weapons Squads poured concentrated fire on them. Heavy Bolter rounds swept across the field, blasting heretics to pieces. Olhouser and Snyder fired their mortar; the airburst shells detonated a few meters off the ground and showered the enemy advance with hot shrapnel.
But the amount of incoming fire was still very heavy. Marsh Silas knew he was pinned down by the skirmishers already flooding through the trees. Bullets kicked up dirt, hammered the trunk, and snapped by his head. He couldn’t even lean out to fire. Looking across to his right, he saw Hyram lying behind a fallen log with Drummer Boy. The latter communicated via the handset and Hyram seemed to be shouting but Marsh could not hear him over the noise.
The Lieutenant made eye contact with Marsh. He pointed at him, motioned to his cover, and then raised himself into a crouch. As he lay down suppressive fire, Marsh scrambled to his feet and bolted over to him. Diving behind the log, he slithered between the two officers.
Rolling onto his side, he tried to talk to Hyram but the battle din was too much. Grabbing him, he screamed directly into his ear.
“Where the fuck are 2nd and 3rd Platoons!?”
“Drummer Boy’s got them on Vox, they’re coming with all haste!” Hyram slammed a fresh las-mag into his M36. “They have the initiative; we’re going to take it back.” He grabbed the laud hailer from Drummer Boy’s Vox-caster, turned the volume all the way up, and raised it to his lips. “Alright Bloody Platoon, get off your asses and advance!”
With that order came a bellowing war cry. Guardsmen stood up throughout the wood and charged from tree to tree. Colorful lasbolts streaked between the trunks and slammed into running heretics who held their ground to stop the counterattack. Men lobbed grenades as they ran. Detonations rocked the woods, throwing bark, shards of wood, dirt, and shrapnel in all directions. Hyram stood up and waved his arm. “Follow me!”
He vaulted over the log and Marsh Silas was right behind himMarsh slid in behind a tree, returned fire, advanced, and ran a heretic through the belly with his bayonet. When he looked up, a heretic with a hatchet came at him. Yeardley and Rowley bayoneted the man together, one from either side. Marsh finished him with a shot to the head. They kept moving. Marsh expended the last shots of his charge pack at a group of heretics attempting to storm forwards. Only one survived. The heretic pulled the trigger of his autogun, but he too was out of ammunition. Roaring, he yanked the pin off a grenade and ran at Marsh.
A bolt shell from Carstensen’s sidearm struck him, cleaving his arm from his shoulder. But the grenade flung from his grasp. Marsh was too far to throw it away, but Queshire bravely lobbed it back at the enemy. He dove back at Marsh, helping him take cover as it exploded. Just as they stood up, heretics assaulted them. Queshire nimbly threw a man over his shoulder, drew his 9-70, and caved the attacker’s skull in. Carstensen approached, killing the others with her Bolt Pistol. Clivvy and the other Whiteshields finished the wounded with their bayonets.
“Come on!” Queshire yelled at the enemy, drawing his chainsword and laspistol. “You may take one of ours but we will claim one hundred of you in return!”
The cry invigorated the platoon and they surged forward. Babcock flowed among them, the standard rippling over his head. Hyram kept encouraging the Guardsmen to advance, shouting through Drummer Boy’s laud hailer. Their attack blunted, the enemy withdrew. About ten meters from the tree line, Hyram ordered Babcock to plant the flag behind a log. “Bloody Platoon, hold right here!” the Lieutenant shouted.
Marsh and Carstensen advanced to the Lieutenant’s position. The platoon formed up on either side of him and hammered the heretics as they trickled out of the woods. Those in front attempted to fall back while the ones in the field still charged along. Reformed, the Shock Troopers poured relentless fusillades of lasbolts and plasma into the enemy. Grenadiers broke up squads with sustained, accurate fire. From the left flank, the devastating fire from the Heavy Weapons Squads intensified. The field the heretics tried to cross was now littered with corpses.
The battle was turning in their favor. Marsh Silas felt it as the excited troopers cut down entire rows of heretics. War whoops and insults were hurled at the enemy despite their heavy autogun fire.
“Come back! Come back, damn you!”
Marsh Silas looked down the right flank. The Whiteshields were a flurry of movement. Clivvy was attempting to rush forward but the others held her back. Merton had left their position alone, the tears still running down his cheeks as he roared.
“By the Emperor, stop that man before he gets himself killed!” Hyram shouted.
“On it, sir!”
Marsh took off down the line, reached the Whiteshields, and hooked left into the fray. As he chased him, he caught movement on both sides. Despite Clivvy’s shouting, Yeardley was joining him and so was Rowley. Even with her heavy Vox-caster, she was keeping pace and was determined to catch her squad mate. Weaving between the trees, returning fire, and sprinting across open ground, Marsh gained on Merton. The young Whiteshield was halfway to the edge of the woods and forged a bloody path through ten or so heretics. Slashing and stabbing with his bayonet, shooting with his lasgun, battering with the stock, he overcame one traitor after another.
“Merton, fall back!” Marsh hollered.
“Come back, please! Don’t do this!” Yeardley yelled as they closed in.
Marsh pushed as hard as he could. Merton was running, shooting, and screaming at the top of his lungs. Letting his weapon hanging by the strap, Marsh reached out with both hands to snatch him by his webbing. Just as his fingers grazed the Whiteshield’s Flak Armor, a bullet smashed through his skull. Blood, bits of skull, and brain tissue came out the exit wound and some of it got on Marsh’s cheek.
The Whiteshield teetered forward and dropped to the ground. Marsh threw himself beside an adjacent tree. Merton had fallen on his chest but his head turned as he did. His wide, tear-filled violet eyes stared back at the platoon sergeant. His lips were parted and his tongue hung out. He wasn’t sure how long he stared into the dead boy’s eyes, but when he heard someone shout, ‘brace for the counterattack,’ he raised his M36 and kept fighting.