“Stand firm, Guardsmen, stand firm!”

Marsh Silas threw himself down on a minor rise of land in between two trees. Balancing his M36 on the lip of earth, he took aim and fired at the approaching enemy. Another wave of screaming, ragged, autogun-toting heretics charged their position. Leaping over and stepping on the corpses of their dead comrades, they barreled towards the Imperial position in the woods. From the left flank, the combined might of 1st Company’s Heavy Weapons Squads opened up on the enemy. Streams of Heavy Bolter rounds cut down entire lines of the attackers, blowing open their stomachs, decapitating them, and blasting their legs into pieces. Bits of flesh, sprays of blood, and scraps of clothing went everywhere. Salvos of mortars fell on them and burst overhead.

Despite the ferocity of the enfilading fire, the heretics were too numerous to wipe out before they reached the wood. All around him, Guardsmen loaded fresh charge packs and fixed bayonets. Others lobbed hand grenades, creating a line of dull, dirty explosions that knocked many of the front ranks down. As they closed the distance, the Cadians bellowed.

“Push forward, you Whiteshields!” a sergeant from another platoon shouted. Marsh turned to see an entire squad of the conscripts advance.. “You fools, not that far!”

“You’re too exposed, fall back!” Marsh cried. Automatic fire ripped through the air, slicing all ten Whiteshields down. A few were still alive and hollered in pain. Before Marsh Silas could help, a heretic came at Marsh with a makeshift spear. Dropping his M36 and drawing his power sword in the same instant, he sidestepped the enemy’s thrust and grabbed the spear shaft. Then, he thrust his blade through the heretic’s stomach so fiercely the tip came out his back. Kicking the heretic off and dropping the spear, he blocked a hatchet blow from a second opponent. When he swung again, the platoon sergeant ducked, rotating as he did, and sliced the man’s gut open.

He looked back to his right. Guardsmen aborted their attempt to rescue the wounded Whiteshields as heretics overtook the position and finished them off. Whiteshields from another platoon, upon seeing this, turned and fled without orders. Marsh went to chase them but someone tore into his right side. Tumbling and rolling, he ended up on his back. A hooded heretic, his grisly mouth visible through a slit, shrieked at him. He drew a dull, rusty dagger and tried to bring it down on Marsh’s face. But he caught his wrist and held it back. He possessed the advantage of pure strength but the heretic had leverage. He couldn’t let go of the heretic’s throat for fear of letting him come down on him. Meanwhile, the vile being’s free hand searched Marsh’s person for a weapon he could use against him.

Just as he began tugging at the Ripper Pistol in his holster, an olive drab helmet came into view behind the heretic followed by a Type 9-70 entrenchment tool. With a metallic gong it came down on the heretic’s head. Paralyzed from the blow, he fell over to the side. Lieutenant Eastoft flipped her tool to the sharpened edge and brought it down on the enemy’s neck, nearly decapitating him. Turning to Marsh, she offered him a hand and helped him to his feet.

“We’re still in this fight, Shock Trooper!” she shouted.

More heretics came charging through the hedges in between the two trees the pair defended. She knocked one over with the flat side of the tool and then rammed the point into his throat. When another came bursting through the hedge, Eastoft hit him in the face with her fist, grabbed him by the shoulder, and then shoved the point of the shovel directly through his neck. It practically took the heretic’s head off.

As she fought, Marsh returned to his M36 just as two heretics rushed him. He shot one down and then pierced the second with his bayonet. Roaring, he shoved him to the ground with the weapon, withdrew the blade, and then thrust into the enemy’s throat. Three more came at him. A burst of automatic laser fire cut them down, splitting open their torsos and severing limbs. Captain Giles approached on the right, having appropriated an M36 in lieu of his laspistol.

Hyram, Carstensen, and the rest of the platoon command squad were also nearby. Forming a knot of firepower, they poured relentless volleys of fire into the enemy. But the heretics gained the momentum and pressed against the Cadian line. Hyram let his M36 hang by the sling, drew his power sword and laspistol. Deftly, he swiped enemies off their feet or severed them at the knee before delivering the killing blow with his laspistol. Carstensen rushed to counter the charge, blasting heretics to pieces and breaking others with her power fist. A dramatic blow sent one flying against a tree. When his back struck, it made an audible crack that rose about the battle din. She struck another, sending every single tooth in his mouth flying into the air.

Drummer Boy lost his M36 in a grapple and Hyram tossed him his sword. Parrying a sword thrust with his heavy gauntlet, he thrust his blade through the throat of the attacking heretic. Babcock laughed pleasantly as he shot down the enemy. When his charge pack was depleted, he simply dropped it and held the platoon’s standard with both hands. An enemy thrust an autogun equipped with a bayonet at him. Smacking the barrel away with the bottom of the flag staff, he threw his heavy shoulder against him. Ill-prepared for the blow, the heretic fell onto his back. With a deep war cry, the color sergeant pierced the heretic’s heart with the pole. Laughing, he left the standard in the corpse and drew his 9-70. Tossing the entrenchment tool between both hands, he smiled as a heretic came rushing at him. Leaning forward, he practically invited him to attack. Clutching the 9-70 with both hands, he hefted it backwards and then swung it forward, cleaving the heretic’s face.

Even Valens was fighting. Crouching, he took deliberate aim and quickly cut down those who approached. His long-eroded combat skills finally came back to him after so many ambushes and skirmishes in the hinterland. Gone was the young man who stumbled and tripped in the ruins of Kasr Fortis. Now, he was throwing lasbolts down range and suppressing the renegades’ advance. Of course, his bravery was getting the better of him. More than once, he dropped his M36 to snap a pict of the Cadians fighting on either side of him. When the heretics came close, he picked up his weapon and blasted them to pieces.

Still, the heretics flooded into the woods. Captain Giles waved his hand towards the rear.

“Ease! Ease!” he shouted. Guardsmen stood up and withdrew slowly, firing as they went. Clots of troopers fell back, formed a new position, and covered those who remained. Marsh pressed the buttstock of his M36 into his shoulder and covered Eastoft as she finished another foe. Together, they backed up.

On his right, Giles closed ranks. Firing until the charge pack went dry, he swapped it for his sidearm. Before he could get it out, a heretic Marsh and other troops weren’t able to shoot attacked him. Giles wrestled with his opponent for a moment, both grappling and growling as one another. But the Captain was able to trip him and throw him on the ground. “For the Emperor!” the company commander shouted as he tore off his helmet, turned it over, and smashed it on the heretic’s face. After several bashes, nothing was left of the enemy’s face but bloody pulp. Dropping his helmet, Giles finally drew his laspistol and began firing.

As Marsh kept up a steady rate of fire, he watched the lines reform. Hyram brought up the rest of Bloody Platoon to reinforce them. More Cadians fell in until he was shoulder to shoulder with his Whiteshields. Sergeant Clivvy was on his left and Yeardley was on his right. Both of them kept up a tremendous rate of fire, killing countless heretics. All the Whiteshields did, efficiently blunting the heretical assault flowing towards them.

“Give me more, Whiteshields!” Marsh encouraged them. “Don’t let up! For the Emperor!”

“For the Emperor!” came the resounding chorus.

Then, Marsh spotted something crimson on his right flank. At first, he thought it was Carstensen bravely attacking the enemy. But when he looked, he was astonished to see Regimental Commissar Ghent. He was walking with his chin raised, his high-peaked cap high on his head, and his hands folded behind his back. In his right hand he clutched his Bolt Pistol. But he strolled along as if he were inspecting troops on the parade grounds.

“What is this?” he finally said, his voice firm and loud over the cacophony of blasting lasguns and rattling autoguns. “Easing for this pathetic rabble? I thought I served with Cadian Shock Troops, not a pathetic tithed regiment. If ye lack resolve, draw it from me, for mine is bottomless!”

He raised his Bolt Pistol. A heretic came running at him with a pair of daggers. Calmly, as if he were lining up his sights on a target at the firing range, Ghent shot him down. Another came rushing at him from the right. Without looking, he snapped his Bolst Pistol at the heretic and struck him down with a single shot. When a third charged from his left, he tossed his weapon to his other hand, raised it, fired, and dropped him. Another sprinted off a rock and leaped off, bringing his sword down at the Commissar. Raising the Bolt Pistol, he fired two shots. The first Bolt shell blasted open his stomach and the next severed his bottom half from his top.

Walking past the bodies, he encountered an entire squad of hostile attackers. His stride never breaking, he loped forwards and blew them all to pieces. Ejecting the empty magazine, he slid a full one in, and killed another rabble. Ahead of the firing line by twenty meters, he left a wake of fresh blood and broken corpses. He was nearly at the edge of the wood.

“Come on, let’s show’em who we are!” Giles shouted. “For Emperor and Imperium, advance!”

Roaring, 1st Company closed the distance. Shooting, bayoneting, slashing, stabbing, clubbing, and bashing their way through the heretics and the woods, jumping and marching over the corpses, vaulting over fallen logs and rocks, weaving between trees, they retook the ground they gave up. So great was their courage and zeal many broke through the edge and crossed into open ground for a better shot at the retreating enemy. Officers and NCOs grabbed them by their webbing and hauled them back into the trees. Marsh had to grab Rowley, Yeardley, Tattersall, and even Corporal Webley. Pushing and dragging them back, he joined the firing line.

“Control your fire!” he shouted to the other troopers. Mark your targets before ya fire!”

Nearby, Commissar Ghent stood in the open and casually picked off targets with his weapon. Even as they drew out of range, he kept on firing. Everyone else was prone or found cover behind tree trunks and rocks except for him. Even under withering fire—the rounds smacking into the trees, snapping through the air, or thudding into the ground—he did not move at all.

“Look, there goes 2nd Company!” Babcock yelled as he retrieved the flag.

The brave men of their sister company rushed across the ground adjacent to the Heavy Weapons Squads’ position. Today, they were assaulting the final heretic hive across from the wood. All the others were secured except for this one. Marsh raised his magnoculars and watched them push up the slope. Surprised by the attack, the heretics barely returned fire. Many retreated through the countless trap doors, spider holes, and mine shafts of the mound.. Swarming over the low hill like insects, Cadian secured all the entrances. Then, they lobbed fragmentation grenades and satchel charges inside. A series of detonations rocked the mound and 1st Company ceased firing.

“Gather up the wounded and the dead,” Giles ordered. “Third Platoon, hold here. Second Platoon, shift to the north. First Platoon, retire to the rear.”

***

Bloody Platoon lost two men and another five were wounded. Those two men were Corporal Second Class Eadwig and Corporal First Class Millard. While they didn’t have the responsibilities of full corporals, men like Eadwig and Millard were in charge of smaller sections of men, oversaw small work details, and could sometimes hold a small watch known as a ‘corporal’s guard.’ Almost nobody in Bloody Platoon possessed a rank lower than Corporal Third Class.

Eadwig was from Kasr Oskari, renamed for the great Cadian general who successfully defended the Wyot Plains during the First Battle of Cadia at the cost of his own life. He was a brave trooper who distinguished himself in countless battles. During the Raid on Kasr Fortis, his daring action in the destruction of a Heavy Stubber nest earned him the Eagle Ordinary and he was wounded during the escape. For this, he was awarded his sixth Vulnerati Medal, a unique Cadian award for Shock Troopers who sustained wounds in combat. This was a great source of amusement and jeering because Cadians were wounded very often and with so many millions of troops on and off world, the orders for these decorations could sometimes be lost. Many Guardsmen in Bloody Platoon hadn’t received enough medals for all their wounds. Friends joked Eadwig knew somebody in Cadian High Command and bribed them to get his medals on time.

Millard was from Kasr Uthric, a distinguished bastion seated on a strip of land in the far east that was often targeted by warbands for its strategic staging grounds. Ever since he was a Whiteshield, Millard fought in defense of his home and the entire region. Thus, when he finally was transferred to the Shock Troops, he was already a battle-tested soldier with seven Eagle Ordinary’s on his chest as well as the Medallion Crimson which he earned during the Raid on Kasr Fortis. While the majority of Blood Platoon went to destroy the factory, he remained at the casualty collection point. Despite grevious wounds to his chest and stomach, he still manned a firing position when the rally point came under attack. He braved heavy fire to bring ammunition to the Heavy Bolter and then tossed out two grenades which were thrown into the building. Always humble despite his proud Cadian heritage, he did not report his actions. Thankfully, a month after the raid, one of NCOs reported it to Hyram and Millard was awarded the Cadian Cross, a high honor reserved for heroic acts committed by Cadians, those adopted into Cadian culture, or to deserving off-worlders on rare occasions.

The pair both served in 3rd Squad; where Millard was reserved and taciturn, Eadwig was loud, joking, and boisterous. Yet, they were brothers in arms and fought well together. During the last action, Eadwig was riddled with shrapnel from an enemy grenade. According to Honeycutt, this severed several arteries, including one in his leg. He bled out before anyone could tend to him. Millard died while dragging a wounded Corporal Efflemen out of the line of fire. First, his knees were shot out. When he stopped and covered Efflemen, he was shot in the face and throat. His death was quite instant, Honeycutt assured Marsh Silas.

But Marsh Silas still stood over the two bodies, now covered with their olive drab blankets. Their booted feet and hands jutted out from underneath. Although their faces were covered, the blankets folded around their heads and he could make out the vague shapes of their noses and mouths. Next to each of them was their helmet. All their other wargear was appropriated and distributed among the survivors.

Queshire, their squad leader, trudged up. The lackadaisy sergeant gazed sadly at Marsh. Together, they removed their helmets and clasped their hands together.

“My Emperor above,” Marsh began. “I ask Thee to cloak and veil these souls in honor for. I pray You keep them by Your side, so they may serve You in that life which comes after death, the everlasting glory beside You and the Golden Throne. I already ask too much, my Emperor, but if at all possible...” he finally looked up at the sky and offered a faint smile. “...could You allow them a good, long rest before You send’em on their next mission? They earned it. Thank you, my Lord.”

Marsh made the Sign of the Aquila before reaching into his pocket. Retrieving his prayer beads, he ran his thumb over them, brought the beads to his lips, nodded, and tucked it away. Crossing to the other side of the two bodies, he first rested his palm on top of the blanket over Eadwig’s forehead, and then Millard’s. Then, he came back to Queshire and put his hand on the back of his head. Queshire did not speak and held his Sign of the Aquila.

He decided to leave his friend in peace. As he rejoined the unit, he found Carstensen approaching him. She carried his power sword in one hand and then leveled it. The blade was still slick with disgustingly dark heretical blood.

“I found this peculiar trinket on the ground. It looks rather familiar.”

Smiling, he took it from her. Unwilling to wash the tainted blood near the bodies of the honored dead, he stepped some distance away before he sank to his knees. Carstensen stood beside him as he took the cleansing oil out from his kit bag. Popping the cap, he slowly poured the oil over the tarnished part of the blade. Then, he yanked a clean white cloth out from the pack and carefully wiped the blood off. In a few swipes, the metal was clear of the heretic’s ilk.

Burning the cloth with his lighter, he sheathed his sword and stood back up. He cast a look back towards the two bodies. Beyond them were more covered corpses, all from other platoons as well as various workers constructing the road. Preachers walked solemnly among the bodies, burning incense in small golden pots suspended on silver chains around their necks. Bowing their heads, they recited quiet prayers and sprinkled holy water onto the blankets.

Carstensen touched his shoulder. “Take heart, Silas. They died for a most righteous cause.”

“Aye, they have, but my heart shall remain heavy for a time, methinks,” Marsh said quietly. Carstensen took him by the elbow and turned him away.

“Come, let us away from this spot. Why not set eyes on this wooden road?” Carstensen led him away. Marsh tiredly adjusted the straps of his M36 and shotgun.

“I’ve gotten used to loss over these long years,” Marsh said to her. “I like to think myself a strong man, with a fortitude akin to that of my old friend.” He ignored that satisfied chuckle uttered by Barlocke’s fragment. “But it still makes my soul very sad to see friends go. How do you keep your strength about it, Lilias?”

She folded her hands behind her back and thought for a moment. Eventually, her expression becoming one of resignation, she looked down a little.

“When I was among the Progena, the Drill Abbots instructed us to act without any feeling save for our love of the Emperor and the Imperium. Sadness and joy were not to be entertained. For some time, I clung to such lessons. But a true warrior learns and adapts. I have found it is better to indulge sorrow for a time, to let yourself feel it, and then press onward. I know, a Preacher might disagree, but a soldier with a clear mind is an effective one. To resist feelings is to make them all the more powerful. Indulge and move forward. That is how I accept loss.”

Marsh Silas smiled the entire time she spoke. She was so wise. Her tone was not grave or stately, but with a humble profundity. She knew what she said was important to him and to herself, but she was not pretending to be a scholar. What she said came from both the heart and the mind, weaving together into something tangible for the platoon sergeant.

“Thank ya, Lilias” Marsh said quietly, touching the power fist.

“Tis nothing, Silas,” she said, doing her best to sound official now. It was a deflecting sort of tone, one she assumed only when he spoke tenderly and she did not want to show her embarrassment towards it. Marsh enjoyed it thoroughly. “The Drill Abbots would be aghast to hear me say such a thing. I tell you, if I ever met them again they would be disappointed in me. But I do not care. One day, when I advance, I will have cadets and Junior Commissars of my own to train. They will learn how to dedicate themselves to their men—to uplift them, not punish. They will become wise and learned, they will become selfless and inspiring, they will be brave, braver than I.”

“How can ya say such a thing? You’re the bravest o’ the whole lot.”

“Only Ghent can lay claim to the title of the bravest.”

Marsh scoffed and waved his hand dismissively.

“Don’t be confusing bravery with stupidity. I can admire a fella who puts himself in danger for his comrades, but making yourself a ripe target for the enemy like that? I don’t profess to be a learned man by any means but it seems to me a Commissar is more useful alive than dead. You are all the braver for committing to a dream of a prosperous, better future.”

“Sacrifice comes with its usefulness, my dear Silas,” Carstensen said. She flashed him a kind smile, one that made her blue-green eyes squint a little. “We should all hope to be so brave. I know you have grievances against Ghent but surely you can admire him for what he has accomplished.”

The two stepped out of what was left of the wood. Most of it was reduced to a field of stumps. From the east, dipping into depressions and rising over hills, was a long, winding, brown, tightly built wooden road. At the front, hordes of servitors guided by Enginseers as well as work gangs consisting of indentured laborers drawn from all over the sector, lowered long, thick, angular, sturdy wooden blankets onto the ground. Diggers got out of the way and then assisted the others in seating the plank into the earth they carved out. Using large drills, workers fastened them to the previous plank. Then, they went about caulking the seams and reinforcing the edges with longer planks on the border.

After about half a week’s worth of work, vehicles were already trundling down the completed sections. The 95th Regiment had arrived and helped take out some of the renegade hives. As well, the 217th Mechanized was already on the road and deployed some of its infantry to the area. Everywhere along the road were sawmills, work stations, camps, heavy cranes, and stacks of trees. In the remnants of the little forest, men armed with axes and servitors equipped with saws cut down more. Every so often a cry of ‘timber,’ rose up and a tree crashed down. A flurry of men hurried over and they dragged it away. Overseers whipped and flogged those who lagged behind.

After a few moments, Marsh sighed and kicked at the dirt a little.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“I’ve known Ghent longer than I knew my father,” he muttered. “He’s always been hard on me and others. When other training cadres turned in for the evenin’, he kept us out drillin’. When others were at mess, we were out drillin’. Do ya know what we were doing when the others were sitting down for lectures? Drillin’.”

Junior Commissar Carstensen chuckled. It was pleasant, almost musical, and enough to make Marsh cease his tirade. In fact, she had to cover her mouth with her other hand to make herself stop. When she finished, she gazed at him tenderly.

“I seem to recall a platoon sergeant I’m quite fond of training his Whiteshields all day and all night, too. It seems Ghent’s student has drawn on his master’s ways to teach his own pupils.”

“How dare ye,” Marsh said, wagging his finger at her. But he could not keep up his veneer of amusement. “My Whiteshields. What a lot of good my lessons were. Graeme, Merton, Rayden…”

“Silas, there are seven Whiteshields still alive after weeks of combat. You saw what happened earlier? Careless orders and lack of training saw an entire Whiteshield squad wiped out in their first action. Thanks to you, you have made a real difference in their lives.”

“We did,” Marsh eventually said, smiling. He slipped his hand into Carstensen’s. “We did everything we could, I know, but it just doesn’t feel like it’s enough. I think I lured myself to someplace where the enemy ceased to exist. All this preparation and we still lost them. But Hyram is right, this is war, and our foes have a say. If we are to ever raise Whiteshields again, I will amend the way and help them further.”

Carstensen affirmed this by squeezing his hand and nodding. They faced one another, closed their eyes, and leaned in. But Marsh’s micro-bead crackled to life and Hyram’s voice came through.

“Get to the CP, double-quick. Isaev has come up with a real nightmare.” His urgent voice veiled a rising fury. Marsh and Carstensen hurried back into the woods. At their quarters, Bloody Platoon was circled around Colonel Isaev, Commissar Ghent, Giles, Eastoft, and Hyram. Behind the junior officer, the seven Whiteshields were lined up in the position of attention. All the Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon looked grim. .

“Colonel, please, the Whiteshields are down by three men.”

“You took such painstaking effort to convince me of their training and usefulness. After all, this foray of yours was supposed to be another exercise.”

A flash of anxiety passed over Hyram’s face. But the platoon leader recovered quickly.

“Indeed. But with the discovery of countless heretics, our priority shifted from a training mission to a combat one.”

“Then they have plenty of experience to call upon for this assignment.”

Giles and Easoft walked over to Marsh Silas and Carstensen. They pulled them away and spoke in hushed tones.

“Now that we’ve secured the area around the enemy’s stronghold, Isaev wants to send your Whiteshields on a nighttime reconnaissance mission to observe it,” Eastoft explained. “He cites a lack of aerial assets to reconnoiter but there are some in the region. He refuses to send the OSR platoon as well.”

“He’s doing this because he has been embarrassed. Cadian High Command refuses to admit their faults in ignoring the problems and blame him instead. So now he spitefully wishes to punish your platoon just as your star begins to rise.”

“A lone recon mission into land occupied and observed by a well-entrenched foe?” Carstensen hissed. “That petty fool will get them all killed.”

“Whiteshields, at nightfall, you shall get as close to the enemy base as possible, and report on any visible strongpoints and noteworthy characteristics the maps do not define. This is a dangerous and daring mission; success will be cause for mentions in despatches. Are you up to the task?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the Whiteshields cried despite their trepidation. Marsh Silas burst from the huddle of officers.

“Colonel, sir, I’ll go on my own. I’ve got more years of scouting than all o’ them put together. I’ll move faster and be back sooner if I go solo.”

Nobody spoke. Marsh stood awkwardly under their combined gaze. Soon, he felt himself getting a little hot under the helmet. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and disappeared into his sideburns despite the biting cold air.

“I agree, sir,” Commissar Ghent said suddenly. “Even a squad-sized unit will be easily detected. Send him—I shall go also.

Marsh Silas was stunned. Ghent shifted his gaze from Isaev to him. His scarred face was solid as a rock but he offered a small nod. The platoon sergeant simply didn’t know what to say or do.

Annoyed, Isaev mulled over this for a few moments. First, he looked at Marsh, then at Ghent, back to the Whiteshields, and then held his chin while looking at the ground. Eventually, he sighed and raised his chin.

“Utter nonsense. The Whiteshields are ready. But if you two wish to join them, I shall allow it. You will leave after nightfall. Make whatever preparations you deem necessary.”

Isaev left them and Hyram ordered Bloody Platoon to disperse. The Whiteshields fell out of formation and went back to their fighting holes. Hyram and Carstensen each gazed at Marsh uneasily. But the platoon sergeant’s eyes rested on Ghent. Still frowning, the Commissar marched over.

“We do this quietly and quickly. No heroics. We run this as a joint effort, agreed?”

“Agreed, sir,” Marsh said quietly.

“I’m going to find us more ammunition and secure artillery support in case this op runs badly,” the Commissar said. He tapped Marsh on the back as he passed him. The platoon sergeant still couldn’t really speak as he turned his attention towards the Whiteshields. Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen hurried over to the Whiteshields’ positions. Clivvy was the first to stand up.

“Senior Staff Sergeant, I am game for whatever mission we must undertake for the Emperor. But you and Junior Commissar Carstensen taught us sense and we see none of it here. We’ll have no reinforcements, we’re in ground that could be mined, there’s little cover between our positions and theirs…”

“We’re low on ammunition and grenades, too,” Webley added. “If we get into a firefight, we won’t last long.”

“Nah, it ain’t about staying in the fight,” Soames cautioned. “It’s about getting out of it.”

“Yeardley, have you many shells left?” Tattersall asked.

“Enough for a decent spread,” the grenadier replied. He turned towards Marsh and pointed to his grenade launcher. “I have enough to stop a charge and pin them down, but that’s all.”

“I’ll try to round up some more,” Leander said.

“I’ve got new cells in the Vox-caster, we’ll have a clear channel,” Rowley said. “Sir, is artillery an option? I took the forward observer course, I can call for fire if necessary.”

“Take a breath, Guardsmen!” Marsh Silas held up his hands. “Forget the mission and talk to me.”

The Whiteshields looked at one another. One by one, their gazes fell and they drew away stoically. Yeardley observed his comrades sympathetically before stepping up to Marsh Silas.

“We want to do our duty. For the Emperor and for the Imperium. You aspire to do great things and we mean to walk with you, sir. You are on a righteous path—what Guardsman would not wish to follow? But this mission doesn’t feel right and after losing Merton, Rayden, and Graeme…” Yeardley took off his soft-cover cap and clenched in his hands. “...we’re all dead scared, Staff Sergeant.”

The words struck Marsh Silas like a round through his chest. But the shock was swiftly replaced by grim determination. He placed one hand on Yeardley’s shoulder, tapped Rowley on her helmet with the other, and then brought Clivvy in by her neck. All the Whiteshields drew closer.

“Friends, hear me. You are the path. If we succeed, then we shall ensure that Whiteshields like you are no longer cast away like scraps from a plate. I push against the state of all things and they push back; lo, they make you the price. I will not have it. I am going with you tonight. Emperor give me strength, I’m going to get you out alive.”

***

Only helmets and torso pieces were allowed for the scouting mission. Everything that could shine, from their belt buckles to the Aquila on Marsh’s helmet, was dulled. It always pained him to blacken that wonderful, inspiring emblem. To wear it on his helmet, to see the silver gleam in the sunlight, made him so thankful to be a Cadian and a soldier for the Emperor. It symbolized everything he fought for. Sometimes, in his moments of doubt, all he simply did was gaze upon the Aquila and everything made sense once again.

Bayonets were taped to their lugs. Everyone rubbed charcoal on their cheeks and foreheads. As Marsh went around tugging, pulling, and securing the Whiteshields’ webbing, he found Yeardley and Rowley helping one another blacken their faces. Even in the dark, he could see the young girl gently run her fingers across the boy’s cheeks. When she finished, they smiled at one another. Then, he coated his own bare fingers with the stuff and stroked her cheeks with it.

“Ready, Staff Sergeant?”

Ghent came up beside Marsh. The Commissar left behind his cap, leaving him in a heavy black coat and dark field trousers.

“Yes, sir.”

“One minute and we move out. You and I will be on point, Sergeant Clivvy in the rear.”

He disappeared into the throng of Whiteshields. Marsh finished checking the rest and then spied Hyram and Carstensen standing at a nearby tree. Checking his wrist-chrono, he went over to them. Exhaling heavily, he smiled at them. Hyram returned it, Carstensen did not. It was a sad, quiet moment between the three companions. No words were necessary even if they could be offered. Eventually, the platoon sergeant shrugged.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“You know as well as I do you may not come back from this one, Silas,” Hyram warned. All Marsh did was wink and grin.

“Got it, sir.” The two friends embraced one another firmly, slapping one another on the back as they did. When they parted, Carstensen reached out and clasped the side of Marsh’s collar. He could see the subdued anguish on her face, the wish she could do more than merely touch him, but knowing many eyes were on them, such a thing was impossible. Instead, her grip tightened on the collar and she shook him a little.

“I will see you...soon,” she managed to say before she let go.

Marsh nodded and left to join his party. As he did, many of his friends tapped him on his shoulder or helmet. Babcock was more direct, gently butting his fist against his chestplate.

“Watch out for those Whiteshields.”

“I shall wear them like my boots,” Marsh said with a tip of his helm.

Walking to the head of the scouting party, he immediately set forward with Ghent at his side. Yeardley and Rowley were right behind him. As they walked, he winked at them over his shoulder. Both smiled nervously.

Fresh snow fell and their boots crunched on the top layer. Snowflakes piled on their shoulders. Thick, gray clouds blotted out the moon but the occasional beam of pale light illuminated the countryside. Between the crisp white of the snow and the moon’s intermittent light, it gave the hinterland a purplish-blue color.

The party passed the blasted remnants of the hive secured and cleared by 2nd Company earlier that day. Across the scar of blackened earth, they ventured into no man’s land. Marsh, Ghent, and the Whiteshields immediately hunched lower as they walked. Walking in parallel lines, they slowly shifted into a single, staggered line. The Commissar took the lead, as he possessed the map, with Marsh closely behind him. Every few minutes, the platoon sergeant glanced backwards to make sure they were all there. He trusted Clivvy to keep them in order but he just needed to see for himself so he would not get too rattled.

They met no hostile patrols or spotted any movement, allowing them to move quickly. But Marsh Silas did not seize onto hope just yet. Their party was still in hostile territory and their enemies could spring from whatever hiding hole they possessed at any time. But the ground remained clear of any signs of tunnels or spider holes. This did little to assuage Marsh’s unease.

Before long, the enemy’s final bastion loomed in the distance. It was closer than he expected. At first, it seemed like the average hill jutting up from Cadia’s crust. But as they drew nearer, he realized it was much taller and wider than it appeared. But the details were lost at this distance.

Ghent suddenly raised his fist and swept his arm to the side. Everyone crouched. He raised his own set of magnoculars. When he lowered them, he scurried back to Marsh Silas.

“There is a ruin about a hundred meters in that direction,” he said, pointing slightly past the target. “We can use it as an observation post. Move them out.”

“On me, Whiteshields,” Marsh hissed. The entire party shifted direction and closed ranks. Ghent led the way towards the remnants of an ancient Imperial blockhouse. It was a rectangular building without a roof and crumbling walls. Holes large and small marked the walls. Piles of demolished rockcrete lay around it. Marsh stacked up next to the door behind Ghent. The Commissar flashed three fingers, lowered them one by one, and then slid in. Marsh was right behind him. Ghent went left, Marsh went right, and Rowley took the center. There was nothing but more rockcrete bricks, a snow-covered floor, and protruding weeds among the cracks.

“Clear,” Ghent whispered. The rest of the squad flooded in and assembled on the side facing their target. A wide gap by a shell or missile faced their target. Crouching behind the waist-high wall, they observed their destination. Marsh activated the Night Eye feature of his magnoculars and studied the enemy bastion. It was actually an assortment of several hills and ridges. In the center was the tallest but it was joined on the left flank by a wide, rocky, vegetative ridge. In front of the ridge were some low bluffs with trees. In front of the central hilltop were two parallel hills smaller than it. These were also covered in rocks and vegetation. On the right was a singular hill which was higher than the other two but was flatter on the top. Zooming in, he realized there were logs arranged into barriers.

“Yeardley, take down my observations. Rowley, contact the Six and report,” Marsh ordered. As Yeardley scribbled and Rowley murmured into the handset, the platoon sergeant watched dark figures move about. They were different from the ragged attackers harassing them for the past months. These heretics patrolled in formation and never left the range of the heavier gun positions hidden in the rocks. Marsh Silas spotted profiles of various Heavy Stubber barrels and the gun shields of Autocannons. Diggers slaved away, shoring up a few mine shaft entrances at the bases of the two frontal hills. Others dug trenches weaving between the various strongpoints.

Marsh handed the magnoculars to Yeardley. “Keep taking it down. Rowley, handset. Marsh took it and tucked it underneath his helmet. “Primus One-Six, Prumus One-Seven. Enemy position is heavily defended with trenchworks and gun positions. Count at least fifty hostiles outside of their holes. Enemy possess the advantage of the high ground. Correction: multiple high grounds. Requesting—”

He heard the hollow report of a firearm followed by the steady whoosh of a flare. Pop! Marsh looked up just as a white star cluster shell blossomed over their positions. Bullets smashed into the rockcrete, casting shards of rockcrete everywhere. Autocannon shells rocked the exterior and Heavy Stubber rounds laced the openings. As Marsh flattened out on the ground, he saw Webley fall.

Clivvy went to her corporal’s side and lifted her up. Webley’s face was gone. She dropped the body and went to the opening. “Return fire!”

Marsh slid up to the low wall next to Rowley. He grabbed her by the collar and yanked her towards him. “Where’s our fire support!?” he shouted into her ear. Immediately, she grabbed the handset and requested artillery support. Ghent calmly handed her the map before returning fire.

Poking his nose over the edge as tracers flew by and bullets hammered the walls, Marsh saw a hundred muzzle flashes approaching them. Behind them, hundreds more appeared all across the hills and ridges. Mortar shells whistled and detonated nearby and a missile flew from the flat hill top. It crashed into the earth just in front of the bunker, showering them with dirt.

“Artillery will be falling in one minute!” Rowley cried. Bravely, she stood up and returned fire. Red and blue lasbolts blazed through the night, lighting up the snowy ground as they traveled.

“When the shells fall, we shall fall back to our original position!” Ghent ordered.

“Wait, just hold out for a little longer!” Yeardley yelled. He still gazed through the scope and took notes of the position.

“Give him cover fire!” Marsh ordered. He stood up, fired, ducked, fired over his head, reloaded, and kept shooting. Nobody issued any commands or war cries. This fight was unlike any they encountered before and the Whiteshields knew the score: survival. Enemies closed and the Cadians lobbed hand grenades. It seemed as though their artillery would never fire. Whump! “Incoming!”

There was a terrific explosion and Marsh felt something smack into his chestplate. He was thrown backwards and he felt his helmet crack against the rockcrete. Tinnitus flooded his ears. Explosions around him reverberated in his arms. Through the tracer lights, he observed his Whiteshields. How bravely they stood among the flying iron and shearing rockcrete. Leander caught a bullet in his eye. But still he stood and fired. Another fragment struck his remaining eye and a bullet blew out his cheek. Screaming, he lurched back and forth, clutching his face. Rowley grabbed him with one hand to keep him down even as she called for fire. One fanatical heretic vaulted through the gap only for Clivvy to gut him with her bayonet. Tattersall dragged the foe into the blockhouse and slashed his throat with his trench knife.

Leander freed himself from Rowley’s grasp and reeled towards an opening in the wall. Unable to get him, his head still in great pain, Marsh reached out weakly. Walking past the hole just as a Heavy Stubber fire, Leander shuddered. His hands dropped and he collapsed. Marsh looked back at the others. Clivvy ordered the squad to hold fast, Rowley calmly listed coordinates, Soames threw grenades, and Tattersall continually exposed himself. He stood with his M36 in one hand and autopistol in the other, firing them by turns.

Ghent was the calmest, firing through an old loophole. But Yeardley was the bravest. Under intense fire, he still poked his head up to mark enemy positions and note them in his booklet. He did not think of himself but of the man Guardsmen behind their lines. All those men would assault that stronghold and every gun position they knew of would save lives. Despite the danger, despite the overwhelming odds, Yeardley put thousands of lives before his own. All his Whiteshields did.

Tremendous vibrations passed through the earth. They shook Marsh Silas and his hearing flooded back.

“That’s it, let’s move!” Ghent ordered. “Pick him up!” he shouted, pointing at Marsh. Rowley hooked her arms under Marsh’s thighs while Yeeardley thrust his hands under Marsh’s armpits.

“One, two, three, lift.” Marsh was carried out. Clivvy and Soames supported Leander between them.

“He’s still alive!” Soames yelled. Leander’s head bobbed limply as blood leaked from four bullet wounds in his stomach. But his hands moved and his head kept listing from side to side. Tattersall came charging out and Ghent followed.

The party raced across the snow back towards the woods. Artillery shells soon engulfed what was left of the blockhouse. Marsh couldn’t see the heretics coming after them except for their muzzle flashes. As he was carried along, he felt his senses coming back. Tattersall and Ghent kept stopping to fire back at the enemy. Bullets snapped and cut through the air and kicked up snow all around them.

Suddenly, Yeardley yelped and fell over. Marsh dropped and Rowley fell on top of him. In a flurry of limbs, they got back up and started running. He tried to help Yeardley but he pushed his hand away.

“Keep going, I’m alright!”

“Come on, move it!” Marsh shouted, turning and bringing his M36 to bear on the enemy. Just as he returned fire, bullets riddled Leander. The impact was so great he was ripped from Soames and Clivvy’s grasp. “Keep moving!”

He ran with the party. Rowley was ahead of him, yelling into the handset. A burst of automatic struck her and her Vox-caster sparked. She screamed as the machine continued to pop and sizzle. Marsh and Clivvy ripped the Vox-caster off her before it burned her. Thankfully, the bullet hadn’t penetrated. They tossed her back onto her feet and pushed her forward. The others ran past them as they did. Tattersall whirled around, firing the last rounds of his autopistol. He dropped it, fired a few lasbolts from his M36 and kept running. Ghent wheeled halfway around, running forward but shooting backwards. Soames was next to him and a bullet slammed into his exposed lower back. Dropping to the ground, he clutched the wound and screamed. A moment later, a bullet tore his throat open and he fell flat.

The woods were in sight. Heavy Bolter fire tore through the night from the ridge on their right. Lasbolts poured out of the woods. He heard screaming and shooting behind them. Clivvy was the first one who reached the safety of the trees, followed by Rowley, Ghent, Marsh, and then Tattersall. The platoon sergeant turned around. Yeardley was limping after them. He was well over two dozen meters behind them. He was clutching his bleeding leg.

“Come on, lad, move it!”

“Run, man, run!”

“To me, Yeardley, please!” Rowley screamed. Even though the firing between the two opposing forces was dying down, Marsh started running towards him. Someone snatched him by the collar so hard he fell backwards. Ghent held him back.

“What’s the matter with you? Trying to get yourself killed? Hold position!”

Marsh freed himself but Ghent remained right beside him. Hunkering down beside a tree, the heavy fire from their supporting element died down. The last of the enemy’s autoguns also faded. Yeardley was alone in the snowy field, hobbling as fast as he could towards the trees. He balanced his M36 in his left hand and continued to hold his wound with his right. The lad was so close his breathing was audible.

Then, a shot rang out. Yeardley fell onto his other knee. Blood soaked his other leg but he stood back up. Another round struck him, this one piercing his lower right side below his chestplate. A third round followed near the same spot. This time he wailed pitifully, like a wounded dog. But he kept trying to move. Everyone shouted encouragement or tried to spot the sniper. Hitch and Bullard were called for and the two began scanning the environment. Bullard sat down, wrapped his arm around himself, and balanced his long-las on it. When a fourth round hit Yeardley’s lower left side, he dragged himself for a meter. Marsh tried to go out but Ghent held him back. The Whiteshield stood up, limped forward, and was struck by a fifth round. This time, his legs gave out when he was less than five meters from the tree line. Bullard fired and a long, red streak ripped through the night.

“Sniper eliminated!” the marksman hollered. Marsh raced over to Yeardley, grabbed him by his webbing, and dragged him back among the trees. He collapsed and brought the boy into his arms. Pushing off their helmets, he cradled his head. Yeardley’s breathing was quick and ragged.

“I hurt so terribly, Staff Sergeant,” he whimpered. “Oh, by the Throne, have I failed my comrades? I am so scared.”

“No lad, you failed no one. The Emperor knows what you did. Lives will be spared thanks to you and to your friends. You’ll see it, I promise. It’ll be alright. The Emperor…protects…” Marsh’s voice became choked and tears welled in his eyes. Yeardley shook terribly. Guardsmen gathered around.. Rowley fell beside him and wept. She tried to speak and her voice faltered, so she just touched the boy’s cheeks. At that moment, Yeardley reached into his pocket, pulled out the booklet, and placed it into Marsh’s hand.

“For…the Cadian army,” he croaked. “For Bloody Platoon…to help my friends…like, you helped us. Thank you, Marsh Silas for…getting me this far. I never thought I would survive my first action…” He closed his eyes. “...I am going to Kasr Polaris, now.” His breathing grew shallow, then slowed. Yeardley’s head nodded to the side and a final breath washed over Marsh’s neck. The platoon sergeant cradled the head of his young friend to his chest and wept.