Bloody Platoon’s section of the perimeter was seated on the cliff in front of their barracks. Structured in the Cadian-pattern earthworks there were several series of zigzagging trenches. The nucleus was their infantry barracks, which had secondary firing pits, a mortar pit, and other fortifications adjacent to it. Behind it was a small support trench which housed a dugout designed to be an aid station as well as two supply rooms. These two networks were connected to one another by communication trenches, facilitating the transfer of troops from emplacement to emplacement. Another set of communication trenches from these positions and the barracks itself went to the parapet, or the ‘fire trench,’ as the Guardsman referred to it. This trench had a raised rear lip for protection from bombardment as well as a firing step that allowed the Guardsman to stand up and engage targets. Firing bays were also included, going about a meter out from the trench itself. Thick layers of sandbags and coils of barbed wire lined the edges of the trenches, ensuring the men had extra cover and didn’t allow enemies to pass over them. Only a few wooden planks acted as bridges and these could be easily collapsed by the men inside the trenches thanks to a primitive drawbridge system devised by Sergeant Stainthrope and Arnold Yoxall.
Within the parapet and the communication trenches were different kinds of dugouts. Bloody Platoon lived mostly in their barracks, so these dugouts were more or less shelters rather than spaces to dwell in. However, they were not weak. Each one was made of reinforced rockcrete, covered with a heavy layer of earth, and then sandbags. Most had a metal stovepipe that allowed men to brew recaf and cook meals when they were on watch or during protracted sieges. Others had cuttings in the walls similar to that in the underground portion of the barracks that could facilitate a sleeping bag. Cadian doctrine dictated most of these dugouts were to be around three meters deep and six meters wide. Almost all the dugouts in the parapet were designed for combat rather than providing a means of extra cover. Many were reinforced, three by five meter rockcrete bastions and were utilized as gun positions for the Heavy Weapons Squads. Observation posts were smaller, only being around two by two meters, and relied more on sandbags for defense and camouflage netting for concealment. But a few Guardsmen could turn it into an excellent hardpoint during a battle; a reliable tactic was to have three to four troopers armed with lasguns and then a grenadier to provide heavy support.
Some parts of the parapet were also reinforced for the infantry. Instead of just providing a firing step, the left flank which overlooked the path leading down to the beach had metal loopholes and slits in the sandbag walls for men to fire out of. Both flanks ran down and merged into the parapets of other platoons’ trenches. 1st and 2nd Platoons were on the left flank; they provided a link to 2nd Company’s station along the beach. On the right were men from 3rd Company. In some sections, there were single-man firing pits designated for marksmen like Bullard or good shots like Cuyper and Foley. These were considered the weakest points in the line as they were extended by a meter from the main trench and could only hold one man reliably. Entanglements were erected at these positions as well as sandbags, but they were never more than a few meters away from a dugout or firing bay.
Besides sandbags and barbed wire, mesh netting covered with brown strips of felt or cloth were a common feature. These provided concealment for the troops in the trenches and were found most commonly over the forward dugouts and firing bays. In the secondary trench, the mortar pit and other firing bays had similar coverings. In some locations, the netting stretched over intersections, junctions, and entrances to the shelters. While they provided no protection from the wind, the sun could be overbearing even in winter so shifts were taken in the dugouts or under the nets to prevent snow blindness.
Cadian Shock Troops were excellent on both the offense and defense, and Bloody Platoon was no exception. Although the strongest aspect of a defense were the men in the trenches, they had taken time to finely design their section. Already, there were double layers of barbed wire coils and fencing in front of the parapet. More lined the tops of the communication trenches. Every bunker was reinforced with extra sandbags. Wooden planks were fashioned into duckboards for the trenches, keeping the men out of water when their drainage systems failed.
After the Battle of Army’s Meadow and the onslaught of the undead, Bloody Platoon installed new mines in the small space between the cliff’s edge and the parapet. Snare Mines were excellent, remotely anti-personnel devices. Rough, yellow, straw-like grass grew in patches along the cliff edge, so the men marked the locations of mines by covering them with a thin layer of soil topped by the grass. Another Cadian practice was a styling called ‘quick barricades,’ which were spiked barriers slotted into a trench wall adjacent to an intersection. If forced to give ground, retreating troops yanked the barricade out and could slow down pursuers or make a strong stand.
Unfortunately, as advantageous as their cliffside position was, the sheer, steep drop of the cliff made it difficult to fire down onto enemies who managed to land on the rocks below. During that terrifying night battle a year ago, the undead were already climbing up the cliff by the time they realized they were crossing the empty channel. Yoxall, in response, made a rudimentary but effective warning system.
Twine was tied between small wooden stakes driven into the ground along the edge of the cliff. At first, spent ration tins were hung from the twine but the wind often jostled them. The clanging would rouse Bloody Platoon unnecessarily, so Yoxall and Stainthorpe came up with a solution. Instead, the twine was left bare and followed a discrete series of secondary lines into the parapet’s sentry posts and observation points. When a hand or a foot fell on the twine, the pressure sent vibrations along the string. These vibrations then resonated into an empty ration tin can which trembled audibly, thus allowing the lookouts to raise the alarm.
Walking through the trenches, Marsh Silas and Carstensen took meticulous notes. Marsh scribbled on a pad he started to carry while she entered information into her data-slate. They would inspect a section of trench, take note of its qualities and fortifications, come to a conclusion, and then she would log the information in her device. It was a slow process but with a fully belly and agreeable company, Marsh did not mind so much. Their conversation was informal and they spoke in a workshop manner, rattling of ideas and observations without hesitation.
“I should think a third layer of barbed wire should be added. Perhaps not as thickly as the first two,” Carstensen recommended.
“Ol’ Arnie Yoxall there made sure the mines were all planted in patterns to funnel the enemy into the big guns’ crossfire. Maybe we could set something to keep the enemy bottled up and guide’em into where we can kill’em.”
“A tad complex for such little ground,” Carstensen said. A moment later, she typed it into her data-slate. “But a sound strategy nonetheless.”
“It doesn’t have to be wire, either,” Marsh said as they walked into an OP and leaned out to get a better look at their defenses. “Maybe low stakes. No, no...how about caltrops?”
“I was thinking the same,” Carstensen said as she recorded the decision. “Low profile and liable to put a hole in a heretic’s foot. Even if they don’t go over them, that’ll give them less room to move around.”
“Aye, exactly!” Marsh said excitedly. “My, you truly understand.”
“I ought to,” Carstensen said. “A Commissar must study many facets of warfare if they are to pass on their knowledge to others. It just so happens that I’ve grown an affinity for the study of military engineering. It seems you have as well.”
“Engineering might be too fancy a word for it, but aye, I do like coming up with these sorts of ideas. Not to mention, I’ve grown up around it. Trenches, bunkers, they’re very fine sights to an old soldier like me. Creating solutions to problems is something I’m very fond of.”
“As am I,” Carstensen smoothly said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. There was an awkward bout of silence between the pair for a time. “Well, what do you make of the Whiteshields?”
“I can’t say. They might just be more of a burden while we run missions rather than an asset. It’d be different if this were a larger regiment with greater, oh, what’s the word, disparity of experience. If there were more medium quality troops, they could be entrusted to show the Whiteshields a thing or two about what the real war is like, leaving us Veterans to fight it out as we always do. We get tasked with the tougher assignments; harder missions tend to make corpses out of new blood.”
“And all that new blood ends up being spilled and wasted upon the ground,” Carstensen murmured.
“Either that, or they just end up becoming empty uniforms. I remember when I was coming up, getting assigned to a veteran outfit was a Whiteshield’s worst nightmare. They’d just use those kids as porters and give them all the ruddy work details to free up their time. Ah, it’s typical Militarum behavior to treat the fresh meat with such an apathetic attitude. What’s worse, they’d treat those new kids like shit and wouldn’t teach’em nothin’, so the first time they got into a hard fight, they’d get wasted. Nobody even wants to learn their names.”
“A shame,” Carstensen said. “I like to think all sacrifices in the name of the Emperor mean something, yet, there may always be wastefulness.”
“Aye, ma’am, you are too right.”
By this time, she had taken off her cap and her orange locks shone in the sun. Marsh had taken off his own and secured it under the loop on his shoulder. He watched the Junior Commissar while he waited for her to finish. Her green-blue eyes were focused as they ran across the screen. She was a skilled typist, her thumbs tapping on the keypad quickly. The only one who could type faster than her was Hyram, although Marsh surmised an Adeptus Administratum scribe could out-pace them both. He would never tell them that no matter how much it made him grin.
She noticed him staring and looked up. Marsh found that whenever a superior officer looked his way, he had one of two options. If his presence was not noted before, he went to attention and saluted. But if he was already in their presence, he would look away and attempt to appear preoccupied. Instead, he maintained her gaze. He was not sure what compelled him to do such a thing. Yet, he was not scared of rebuke or a reprimand. Perhaps, he was consoled by her neutral expression rather than one of annoyance or threat.
“Have you begun your typing lessons with the Lieutenant?”
“Yes, ma’am. The tough part is remembering all the letter keys. Hyram types so fast his hands might as well be a blur. I know I can get better, but Hyram doesn’t always have time to teach me.”
“Well, I have many duties myself, but I can teach you as well.”
“You would? Ma’am, that’s just swell o’ ya, many thanks!”
“It’s quite clear your lessons are going well. Although, you still talk in that…” her lips twitched into a little smile. “...particular drawl.”
“You think I ought to start talking better seeing as I can read an’ write now?”
“It might behoove you to.” She blinked. “I mean—”
“Behoove: one’s responsibility to act upon something,” Marsh said with a boastful smile. He tapped his temple. “See? I’m learnin’. I’m even picking up a word or two of High Gothic. Here, let me show you.”
Marsh Silas set his pad down on top of the sandbag, flipped to a new page, and started writing. His pen strokes were steady but slow; it took him nearly a minute to complete the complex High Gothic lettering. Carstensen leaned over his shoulder to watch. Finally, he held up the paper and her brow rose.
“This is my name,” she said.
“Aye, and mine right below it. See? Silvanus Crux.” Marsh beamed with pride. “I know my penmanship still needs a lil’ work, but you can read it, can’t you? Your name was the first thing I learned to write in High Gothic. I remember when you told me about it after the first assault during the Battle o’ the Cove. We was all sittin’ in that tent, resting, warming up, and you blew smoke rings with my pipe.”
“I did not think you remembered,” Carstensen said.
“How could I forget? Not even my own parents ever taught me my name sounds different in High Gothic.” He tucked the pad away and shyly broke her gaze. His smile was pleasant and crooked. “It might seem a trivial thing, a fellow’s name and all. But, my name is all I had for a long time. No possessions besides a few Whiteshield medals, some clothes, and this old pipe. Your name means an awful lot to ya when it’s all you have.”
Carstensen lowered her data-slate and smiled. It was not that little smirk that she reserved just for him or that ghostly upturn at the corners of her mouth the Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon rarely witnessed. No, it was a true smile, still small, but so clear. It lit up her pale face and even the scar which ran from the left side of her mouth seemed to fade. Even her eyes, so constantly resolute, took on a sofer appearance and the glint of her colorful irises seemed so much warmer.
An enlisted man was never supposed to gawk at an officer or any individual above his station ranging from the Commissars to the priests. But he found he couldn’t look away. It was not so much the rarity of her smile as the smile itself that was so captivating to him. She was so pale-faced her lips barely stood out from the skin on her cheeks. Now that she was smiling, the natural pink hue became perfectly visible.
“I am honored to have inspired you,” she said quietly. “To have pushed you to educate yourself and try your hand at something new. That’s what being a Commissar means to me. If I teach, inspire, or in some way set a man forward unto action, then I know I have done my duty. To have done it for someone I personally respect, it is even more humbling.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Marsh nodded bashfully. Carstensen blinked in surprise, and turned back to her data-slate. Scratching the back of his head, he motioned towards the device.
“Would it be too much to ask of you, Junior Commissar, if I might have a go with it? Typing on those small keys, that is. I imagine I’ll have to get used to one when I become an officer.”
“Yes, let’s practice.” Carstensen said, handing it over. “A Guardsman should ever and always be eager for a chance to prove himself, especially when in the presence of a superior officer. Such as me.” This she said slyly and Marsh couldn’t help but grin back confidently. He took hold of the data-slate, scrolled down to the bottom of her report, and started pressing the keys with his thumbs.
“It is opinion based on an evaluation conducted by Staff Ser…oh, Senior Staff Sergeant Cross, and Junior Comm-i-ssar Carstensen that the trenchworks should be a…afforded a third line of ob-stac-les,” he said aloud as he typed. “Barbed wire eeen…ah, entanglements, have been considered, although these entrapments being in great use it is recommended that caltrops be installed. Caltrops offer a tactical ad-van-tage to defenders as it slows down droops and forces them to find clearer ground. This clearer ground can be swept by enfilading fields of fire, dividing sections of the line into kill zones.”
His thumbs moved faster across the keys. Marsh was focused, but not enough to become acutely aware of how close Carstensen was. He equated it to the small screen of the data-slate. For them to both read it, they needed to bring it close to their faces. As such, they were almost cheek to cheek. Their shoulders were pressed together. Carstensen, seemingly focused as she followed along, didn’t glance at him. Marsh hoped she didn’t smell the porridge and meat on his breath. Quite naturally, she nodded with each completed sentence. Apparently so transfixed on the impromptu lessons, she naturally raised her hand and placed it on his back. To feel her hand’s weight on the middle of his back made the platoon sergeant anxious but not in a way he found altogether disagreeable.
When he finished, they both stood back up and faced each other. Her hand fell from his back quickly.
“Well done. Your spelling and punctuation vastly improved. It took a moment to get a feel for the keys but that came eventually. The more you practice, the easier it will become. Just like when it came to field-stripping your M36 as a Whiteshield.” But then she held up her finger and offered a stern expression. “Be wary, though; Hyram’s a pen-pusher in his heart of hearts. He may have you writing his reports when this is all said and done.”
“Throne, I pray he doesn’t. I may be a lowly sort, but I like to think the Emperor made me for more an’ that. More for fighting even. And Hyram…” he trailed off. Carstensen’s lips were twitching again. Lifting a suspicious eyebrow, he pointed at her. “...was that a joke, ma’am?”
“Yes. Not a very good one, I’m afraid.”
“No, it’s plenty funny! I woulda laughed for sure, I jus’ didn’t know you was…” Marsh Silas’s eyes widened and his hand dropped. Carstensen, who had tucked her data-slate, noticed his state and stepped closer. But then he clapped his hands once and pointed at her. “Ma’am, what was that you said about M36’s and Whiteshields?”
“That practicing your typing is akin to learning how to field-strip a lasgun, just like when you were a Whiteshield,” she answered warily. “Staff Sergeant, are you well?”
“That’s it, Junior Commissar! These Whiteshields are the answer!”
“To what?”
“Just how I’m gonna start making my change. We’ve already done so much for Bloody Platoon. Now, we’re going to be getting a bunch o’ Whiteshields. Those kids don’t last in units like ours. But if I can teach them how to fight like a Veteran and show’em how to be real soldiers, get all that nonsense outta their heads like Barlocke did for me, then that’ll give them a chance to really survive. No hazing, no unnecessary details, and no ignorance. If I can do that for our Whiteshields, if I can make that one little difference for some folks, maybe that’ll be the real start o’ things!”
Without even thinking, he grabbed Carstensen by her shoulders and smiled wide. “Thank you, ma’am! You put the lightning in me!” They stared at one another, Carstensen leaning back with her eyes wide. Marsh hastily let go and took a step back. “A-apologies, ma’am. I have overstepped.”
“It’s nothing,” Carstensen said, fixing her coat. “But your idea, I think it’s splendid. It should have the desired effect if you figure out how to do it.”
“I can show them how we fight smart. I can teach them our drills, all our tricks—I’ll even teach them how to read,” Marsh said, nodding eagerly. “I’ll help them rise to the occasion, I will. Proper soldiering.”
“Very good. I suggest you talk to the Lieutenant to clear your idea with him. He may have something useful to say about it as well.”
Marsh Silas was about to hurry by her but she put her hand on his chest. “Wait a moment, there is something I wish to say. You referred to yourself as lowly. I ask you do not entertain such a disparaging thought.”
She clutched his elbow and brought him over to the front of the OP. Together, they looked out over the channel again. A flight of Valkyries swept low over the water as they flew towards Kasr Fortis. Gigantic cranes were all over the rockcrete foundations of many buildings and military structures. Slowly, they turned, their cables hefting huge blocks of rockcrete or bundles of metal timbers. “You’re a decent man with a good head. I meant what I said earlier. An Inquisitor taking notice of your faculties, sparing no expense and taking every painstaking moment to make a better soldier out of you, that means something. But, remember, the Inquisitor would not have taken notice if you were not the man you are.”
Marsh was not sure what to say. A mere, ‘thank you,’ seemed too trivial. To bow, too grandiose. So, he met her eyes and placed his hand over his heart. At this, she nodded.
“Although, he was not just any Inquisitor. Certainly, there cannot be many of his caliber. There was only ever one Barlocke, and we was…I mean, we were certainly close,” Marsh sighed. “He wanted me to come with him after our mission to Kasr Fortis.”
“It is an honor to have one’s abilities assessed sufficient to join the ranks of the Inquisition.”
Marsh Silas chuckled sadly.
“I doubt it. ‘You’re the only one I like,’ he said to me before the mission jumped off.”
“He held a great deal of affection for you?”
“Methinks, at times, it was more than what I bore for him. He became a brother-soldier to me and a good friend.”
“It...” Carstensen began. She pursed her lips and then released a slightly annoyed breath. Marsh Silas was somewhat surprised. He never saw her frustrated even in small ways. Eventually, she looked at him from the corner of her eye. “...you could have gone with the Lord Inquisitor even without Barlocke. What you were offered was an opportunity few would refuse. I like to think that if I were in your boots, I would have the strength to decline and remain with the platoon. But I am not sure. Regardless, I think it is a...very good thing you stayed. These Guardsmen, those Whiteshields who will arrive by week’s end, they need you.”
Her eyes quickly flitted back towards the sea. Marsh smiled a little and without looking held the pipe over to her. The pipe was plucked from his fingertips. While he listened to her puff quietly on the pipe, he folded his arms across his chest and continued smiling. He felt very comfortable beside her then and although they had come to the end of their task, did not want to return to the barracks just yet. The hour was just passing and the sun was still high in the sky. If the wind was absent, it would have been warm enough to take off his coat.
Past Kasr Fortis he could see a weather front approaching. Gray clouds filled up the sky and slid in front of the sun. Intermittent shadows crossed over their OP, briefly bathing them in darkness. The air grew colder and the wind stronger. Before long, the wind carried the first snowflakes down to Cadian earth. When he finally looked back at Carstensen, she was holding the pipe out to him. But when he reached for it, she drew it away. Marsh lowered his hand and raised his eyebrows. Slyly, she looked at him sideways and then held it towards him once more. Tentatively, he grasped for it but again she took it from his reach. Smiling now, he reached across her to get it. Instead, she held it out farther with her other hand.
“You are too cruel, Junior Commissar,” Marsh teased.
“Cruelty would be tossing this pipe into the minefield,” she remarked smartly as she finally returned. “I would not do such a thing to an heirloom so precious.”
“I thank you,” he said, pretending to sound relieved. “Aye, it was my father’s. He went everywhere with it. I never saw my mother smoke by herself. No lho-sticks or stubs, simply nothing until my father came back from his duty stations. It seemed all she ever smoked was his pipe and only if they were together.” He laughed. “When he was at his desk filling our reports, she would come up behind him and steal it when he wasn’t looking. Or she would take it right from his mouth and make him chase her.”
He turned the pipe in his hands several times, running his thumb over the golden Aquila and tracing the neck with his forefinger. “Whenever it snowed, they would go to the window together. They wouldn’t say a word, just stare out at the snow and pass the pipe between them. I suppose when you’re that close to someone, words ain’t entirely necessary.”
Carstensen peered at him curiously for a time before directing her gaze to the gray clouds overhead. The snow was falling steadily and a thin layer of white dust now covered the sandbags. Eventually, she sighed.
“Tis no window, but a view nonetheless.”
“Indeed, ma’am,” Marsh Silas replied. The two looked at each other for a time before the platoon sergeant smiled at her. Carstensen didn’t and offered an expectant expression, as if she were waiting for him to come to an understanding. It took Marsh Silas a few minutes to understand the scenario he just described and how similar it was to the very one he and the Junior Commissar now occupied. Clearing his throat, he shrugged shyly and leaned out, knocking his pipe against one of the wooden stakes holding up the roof of the OP. The ashes fell into the snow and he returned his pipe to his kit bag.
“I think it is time you go submit your suggestion before the Lieutenant. I would go with you, but I must finalize our report,” Carstensen finally said. She donned her cap and fixed it properly. “Proceed to the barracks and then send up the first watch. We do not want the platoon to become complacent, now do we?”
“It’d be most shameful, ma’am,” Marsh said, trying to sound as professional as possible.
“Ma’am,” Carstensen echoed distastefully. Facing him entirely, she let her hands fall from behind her back and hang by her sides. Her expression was not quite urgent or pleading, but Marsh Silas was savvy enough to know when someone wanted to say something but couldn’t. Her green-blue eyes fell from his, her mouth moved slightly, and more than once it appeared she was about to speak only for her to stop herself and recede slightly.
Eventually, seemingly put out by the endeavor, she stood squarely and narrowed her brow. “We are bound by the hierarchy of the Astra Militarum, Senior Staff Sergeant Cross. To afford appropriate respect from every rank to every station is to keep in its traditions as well as the will of the Emperor. To breach these honorable formalities and gestures of respect is an offense deemed punishable by the inconvenienced ranking officer or individual. However, nothing is written regarding a higher ranking officer or individual taking no offense at a breach of this doctrine. When one encounters these gaps, they must rely on their best judgment to come to a decision of taking action or taking none at all. In such a way, we see fellow Guardsmen, despite ranks, refer to each other by given or family names, or by any model of stylization. Often, their experiences and survival through countless tumultuous battles foster these monikers and brotherly affections. It does not impair their ability to wage war against the Imperium’s many foes and draws them closer together as comrades. Nor does it affect the hierarchy within their unit, such as a platoon, and in fact strengthens it. So, these acts might be of service to the Imperium and thus are acceptable by the standards of the Astra Militarum. Within reason.”
Marsh Silas blinked, shifted his eyes, then scratched his chin.
“I understand, I think.”
Carstensen took a step closer to him and opened a palm. Again, she opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself short.
“Thank you for your aid in this matter, Staff Sergeant. I am most appreciative. I shall see you at the evening mess.”
“Yes, Junior Commissar,” Marsh Silas said. She walked out of the OP to go up the trench. Marsh walked out as well but lingered by the OP entrance. “Ma’am?” Carstensen stopped and looked back at him. He smiled at her. “You know, most o’ these gunmen round’ these parts call me Marsh Silas. A few call me by the name my mother gave me, like the Lieutenant, although he is quite fatherly about it. That’s to be expected of a good man like him. But my rank? When mean First Sergeant Hayhurst tears into me or one o’ the staff or senior officers has words with me, that’s when they bring up my stripes.” He leaned against the post of the OP cover and looked down at his boots. “But you ain’t any o’ them to me and you certainly ain’t sharing them harsh words. If it it ain’t too much o’ a hassle for ya, I think I should prefer if you be callin’ me Silas from now on.” Marsh followed it up with an affable shrug. “Within reason, o’ course.”
“Within reason,” she echoed. Marsh shrugged and pretended to study their surroundings.
“Such as when it is just you and I, standing here, sharing a few words, and no one around to eavesdrop or intrude.”
Carstensen stared at him for a long time as snow began to collect on her shoulders and the black bill of her cap. Then she smiled warmly once more.
“I should find that most agreeable, but only under the condition that you should call me Lilias.”
“Agreed,” Marsh said. He walked forward, took off his glove, and extended his hand. Carstensen removed her own and slid her hand into his. Their palms were warm together. He turned back; he wanted to watch the snow clouds come over the water for a little longer to contemplate his ideas.
“Silas.”
He turned back. Carstensen was standing not far behind him. She pinched the bill of her hat so that it was tugged low over her brow. The shadow cast by it veiled her crisp gaze. Her lips, her cheeks, her nose, all were drawn in a stiff expression. “Yes.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice so low it was nearly a whisper. Carstensen raised her head a little and looked at him sideways. “You asked me if I would miss you when you left for officer training. My answer is yes, I would.”
Before Marsh Silas could reply, Carstensen whirled around. Her coat swirled around her ankles and she marched briskly down the trench. All the platoon sergeant could do was watch her leave and smile bashfully.