“I am tired of your excuses, Cross!”
Marsh Silas stood aimlessly in front of Colonel Isaev and a retinue of his staff officers. His personal headquarters at Galen Airfield, built in the rear of Battlegroup Sonnen’s entrenchments, was so warm. Candles burned on the walls, a menial stoked the coals burning in a hearth, and the lamp packs cast an inviting amber ambience. Even with its barren rockcrete floor and walls, the bunker seemed so soft—Marsh thought he could fall asleep on his feet. He blinked sleepily and lowered his pipe. A bitter smile tugged at his crooked lips.
“Sir, I am not taking my men out on those trench raids. No support, not even flares or smoke? It is not only pointless, it’s madness.”
“Don’t you dare criticize me, Cross. I am a colonel, you are a lieutenant, you know nothing of true command.”
“Aye, what do I know about the battle when my men and I are up at the front at all times and you reside here?” muttered Marsh.
“Do not test me, Guardsmen. You still draw breath only because you have von Bracken’s eye. I might just have you shot and bear the Warden-Colonel’s ire.”
“Sir, the execution of soldiers is not as light a matter as you might think,” said Commissar Carstensen, standing beside Marsh. The articles dictate quite clearly that you cannot shoot a man just for offering tactical input. Lieutenant Cross has quite accurately pointed out that the expenditure of resources and manpower for raids which produce no meaningful results is a strategic misstep.”
“And you!” Isaev slammed his hand on the field desk and pointed menacingly at her. “You defend him, twisting words round’ and round’! Do not think me blind to your acts also: your regimental spirit is gone and you seek only to fund that ridiculous schola. Going over my head, consorting with an officer of another regiment, you are far above your station, madam! Why, I should have you shot! Neither of you have given up names for the decimation of the regiment, nor that rat Hyram. You pathetic things, you’ve not the stomach for real war.”
He sat back down, growled at nothing in particular, then ran his hand over his bald head. “You will not worm your way out of this one! One hour, Cross, in one hour you better move down that trench and relieve that station! Fail to obey, and I’ll take away your platoon. Now, go!”
Marsh and Carstensen saluted stiffly and went to the bunker exit. “Where are those decimation listings? Good, I want them scheduled for 1600 hours…” They exited the bunker and entered the wet, morning air. Raindrops drummed on Marsh’s helmet and soaked his khaki scarf. It snuffed out the ash in the bowl of his pipe.
“Thule and his Chapter Master, us and our Colonel. He grows more unhinged,” said Carstensen. “His decimation will be unpopular; he believes it will improve conduct but it will only create further suspicion he is mishandling the regiment. If he is careless, he will be shot.”
“If it comes to that, I pray it is your bolt pistol that does it.” He emptied his pipe and tucked it away. “I do not know how von Bracken will see our toiling in all this. I wonder if the Emperor even sees. Throne, that schola seems so far away; I do not know how we can expect to get anymore men out of this hell alive.” Carstensen didn’t speak, just wrapped her arm his and kissed his cheek. Marsh nodded slowly. “We must go on. Darling, go back to the platoon, make them ready. I just need a little time to think.” Carstensen nodded, kissed him on his bearded cheek, and departed. Marsh Silas slumped against the bunker wall and looked over the airfield. Just another minute, he thought, in someplace that is not just mud.
“Cross.” Marsh’s eyelids snapped back open. Isenhour stood nearby. Despite the gray, overcast sky, the weak sunlight behind the clouds struck the Scout Sergeant’s helmet and cast a shadow over his eyes. He was bundled up in his own poor-weather jacket and his boots were caked with mud. “I require you.” Groaning, Marsh pushed himself off the wall. Sores on his back from rough sleeping at the frontline ached. The warmth from the bunker was fleeting and the wet cold remained lodged in his bones. His first steps were staggered.
“I’m fine,” Marsh grunted.
“I said nothing. Just follow.” He looked up as he started to walk. The rain fell harder, creating sheets that stung their faces. When it died down, Isenhour looked over his shoulder. “It’s worse than the rainy seasons at Army’s Meadow, eh?”
“It makes me long for winter,” said Marsh Silas.
Isenhour led the Lieutenant through a series of trenches along the airfield, through bunkers filled with wet, bearded, miserable looking Guardsmen, and back across open ground. Eventually, they crossed the tarmac of Galen Airfield. Adjacent to the tarmac was the MSR. A long convoy of artillery pieces, tanks, armored personnel carriers, and logistical vehicles steadily rumbled back towards Kasr Sonnen.
“So, it is true. We actually are withdrawing towards the Gaps.”
“General Battye and Force Commander Evander both agree that, in its current condition, Battlegroup Sonnen will continue to bleed out in the valley. By withdrawing to those ridges behind us, we can present a natural obstacle to the Archenemy and reduce the amount of numbers they can commit.” Marsh Silas wiped rain from his face. “It matters not. Forward, backwards, we will keep fighting.”
“I hear you.”
“Sun’s barely up and we’re already soaked through. You better have a good reason for disturbing me.”
“I’m going on a supply run of sorts.”
“More thievery?”
“Supply run. Dry rations, mostly. But seeing as Isaev is sending us back out, we better gather as much ammunition as possible. Charges packs especially—too many fellers roast their packs near the fireside. You can only do that so many times fore’ the casing cracks. Last thing we need are bloody malfunctions in a firefight.”
“I trust the manner of which this supply run will be conducted will not have us put up against a wall and shot.”
“0800 hours is the usual morning barrage period. It rolls up the airfield then hooks left every time, near the stores. By then, almost all the Munitorum clerks will have run for their lives. We steal in, grab what we need, and get to the ditches before the shells strike us. Easy.”
Supply problems were rampant in the trenches themselves, not just the tenuous lines between the surrounding fortresses and Kasr Sonnen. Units were constantly on the move so it was impossible to designate a proper billet for quartermasters to deliver supplies to. Many of the Munitorum personnel were unwilling to leave the rear zone as they did not want to be far from their reinforced bunkers when the enemy’s artillery shifted in their direction. As a result, the issue of resupply was trusted to the men themselves and they could not always make the runs. Of course, there was still the nightmare of paperwork. Despite the dire nature of the battle, the Munitorum still expected troops to fill out requisition forms, obtain signatures from commanding officers, and provide logistical ledgers showing they were not improperly distributing materials.
Relations between the Astra Militarum and their Departmento Munitorum colleagues were quite poor at the moment. Most Shock Troopers resorted to scrounging which was the more polite word for stealing. Most Cadian Guardsmen had a knack for it; even on a well-supplied Fortress World, materials were sometimes stalled behind paperwork, communication and transportation problems, hoarding on the part of some officers, pilfering gangers, and the occasional scum the Munitorum produced who wanted to profit by making soldiers pay for supplies.
No other Cadian Shock Trooper was more proficient at thievery, however, than Scout Sergeants. Their ability to clandestinely loot supply caches were one of the few reasons why common troopers respected them. Isenhour was particularly good at it and, having been attached to Bloody Platoon indefinitely, was ensuring they received enough food to get by day-to-day. The last few times, he’d taken to bringing Marsh Silas with him.
“Easy, he says. We’ll be running around like fools while bombs fall. Quite easy.”
“You have a better plan, then by all means, share it.”
“Why do you insist on bringing me? I’m tired and I’ve got over forty dogfaces to look after.”
“It’s important you know how to scrounge proper-like. You racked up a good score when you were an NCO, but you were still an amateur.” Isenhour said over his shoulder as they waded through a trench filled with knee-deep water. Other men sloshed by, dirty and miserable. Those on watch were glad to stand on the parapet which was just above the water line.
Marsh’s boot became lodged and he stumbled. He managed to keep from falling but his foot was stuck. It felt like it was between two duckboards, sitting uselessly at the bottom. Isenhour noticed, came over, and started tugging on his leg. After a few pulls, they managed to free him. The Scout Sergeant tapped him on the shoulder and continued leading. “This won’t be the last time we get stuck in a fight like this and I won’t be around forever, so it’ll be up to you to make sure these men stay fed.”
“Won’t be around, pah,” Marsh scoffed.
“We’re all gonna die sometime, Marsh Silas.”
“Well, let’s get the damned thing over with. I wanted to get some heavy bolter ammunition belts as well; Afdin’s gun teams sorely need them.”
Bypassing a few flooded trenches and being forced to detour down a fourth after finding their desired approach blocked by collapses, they reached the rear area. The concentration of bunkers and field manufactorums was greater here. But the great complex of the initial Imperial camp was gone. Every important structure was now moved to or around the single airfield that was left. Even the field headquarters was located there, the original command post having been lost halfway through the month. Bunkers, blockhouses, towers, and masses of tents, stretched across the ground. Trenches weaved between every structure. Barbed wire entanglements and tank traps guarded sandbag fortifications.
Marsh Silas and Isenhour loitered near the entrance to the central supply yard. Located at the southern end of the airfield, it was a massive cache of fuel, ammunition reserves, and piles of artillery shells. Some of the material was stored underground for safety and reinforced rockcrete sheds housed a great deal more above ground. But the lack of building material and space meant some were stored in sheds of sheet metal or under canvas tents. It was incredibly unsafe but the poor nature of their position necessitated such risks.
The entrance was a pair of sandbag redoubts guarded by heavy bolter gun teams. These Guardsmen were just as tired of the whole affair and paid no attention to the three soldiers standing nearby. Isenhour turned his back to them and glanced at his wrist-chrono, wiping rainwater from it with his thumb.
“Just a few more minutes,” he whispered. “I’ll get the rations. Marsh Silas, you know where the charge packs are. See if you can get your hands on grenades, too. If there’s time, I’ll get medicine and you get the ammunition.” He handed Marsh a sack and then cupped his hand around his ear. The enemy artillery barrage to the west creeped closer. Marsh looked past Isenhour in between two adjacent bunkers. Landing shells sent columns of mud skyward and then the barrage started barreling towards them. Each concussion was more thunderous and louder. In return, Imperial batteries increased their rate of fire. Earthshakers went off all over the camp. It was the appropriate and expected response. The constant artillery dueling between both sides had become very intimate over the months, so much so that everyone could predict the shells’ movement.
Isenhour pulled his helmet lower over his brow. “Heads down, sir.” Marsh did the same. The gun crews quickly ran for their bomb proof shelters. Across the supply yard, Munitorum staff started scrambling. No one was above ground except for them. “Now!”
The trio sprinted through the gate. Isenhour and Afdin disappeared to the left and Marsh ducked to the right. He forced the door to one of the ammo sheds open; the walls were lined with shelves and crates of various sizes. He was fortunate; the Munitorum personnel had just been sorting the equipment so many of the lids were already removed from the cans and boxes. Digging his fists into one bin, he retrieved dozens upon dozens of charge packs. He stuffed the sack he brought with them, so many that he could see the packs pressing against the burlap.
When he estimated there would be about three or four extra packs for every man in the platoon, he switched to grenades. Outside, the shells were getting closer and the flimsy sheet metal walls of the huts were rattling. Marsh’s hands moved on their own, delving into the open crates and dropping them one by one into the sack. As it grew heavier, he started placing them into his kit bag until he could hardly clip the flap over.
A shell landed close by and rocked the hut. Small ammunition cans tumbled off the shelves. “Are you done yet!? Blast!” Isenhour started to help. First, they laced some of the belts across their torsos and placed a few around their necks. “No more! There’s no time!” A moment later, Marsh Silas found himself fleeing through the doorway. Isenhour took the lead. Shells exploded all around, hitting bunkers directly and caving in their rooftops. Earthshaker positions were hit and their ammunition stores exploded in fiery mushroom clouds. Trenches were turned into craters, dugouts and shelters were reduced to rubble and splinters. The noise was absolutely deafening and so constant, Marsh couldn’t even hear the whistling shells. There was just the cataclysmic, overwhelming, constant, thunderous noise of the detonating shells.
Just as they passed between the sandbag bastions, Marsh Silas felt a strange sensation. His feet were off the ground. Isenhour was flung forth. Both men tumbled to the ground as a massive explosion ripped through the air behind them. Suddenly, it seemed like night had fallen. Acrid black smoke filled his lungs and he hacked. Then, there was a dull orange glow.
Marsh rolled onto his back. He’d been thrown farther by the concussive blast and was in front of Isenhour. Behind him, the entire fuel dump was burning. A cloud of fire rose and swirled over it. Shells continued falling, casting up oceans of mud and debris. Parked Valkyries on the airfield were hit and their engines detonated in spectacular sprays of electrical sparks and flame. Self-propelled artillery positions were also destroyed and their stores of ammunition exploded, casting fireballs into the air. Flak towers crumbled and guard towers collapsed.
Isenhour finally sat up and removed his helmet. He said something to Marsh Silas but the noise was so deafening he couldn’t make it out. Together, they lifted themselves up and staggered towards the trench. The Scout Sergeant kept turning around to make sure he was following him and waved repeatedly, ushering him on.
They collapsed into the trench and slithered along to the nearest dugout. There, they found many other Guardsmen squeezing in for cover. They were bunched and balled up, many carrying sacks of ‘liberated,’ supplies from the yard as well. Shells fell so closely Marsh felt the heat and the concussion. He pulled up his hood so as to protect his face from flash burns. Dirt sprayed his face and razor-sharp shrapnel pummeled the wooden reinforcements just inches away from him.
Marsh Silas slid his hands under his helmet and covered his ears. His helmet’s ear protectors weren’t enough. He wanted to close his eyes but the terrible shelling was too much to bear. If he closed his eyes, he felt like he was suspended, unable to see or save himself. So he forced himself to keep his bulging violet eyes open despite the horrifying sight of so many shells crashing into the earth around him. He felt so pathetically and pitifully small and desired nothing but home. Army’s Meadow, Kasr Sonnen, Kasr Polaris, even that damnable cesspool of a Hive World, Macharia; anywhere but here!
He was still covering his ears when the barrage ceased. Isenhour appeared in front of him and he started patting him down. After several checks, he nodded. “You’re alright, sir. Come on, let’s get back to our lines.”
“But all those wounded men—”
“There’s nothing we can do here, Lieutenant.”
The duo trundled through the trenches. Many of the works that were passable before were reduced to quagmires of slick mud, water-filled craters, smashed supports, caved-in bunkers, and more than a few ripped up corpses. Already, Guardsmen labored to repair the damage and remove the dead. It was morose work but they tended to it as routine. Marsh Silas did his best not to gaze at the bodies.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Towards the frontline, where there had been no shelling, the scene grew more normal. Guardsmen were scattered everywhere. Some huddled shoulder to shoulder and held tarps over their heads. Others sat with gray or black wool watch caps which were rendered damp by the falling rain. In sections of the trench walls where there was no woodworking, they had made cuttings into the earth that were big enough for a man wearing flak armor to duck into sideways. Quite a few men who were not keeping watch were in these cuts to get out of the rain, wrapped in water repellent canvas sheets. Those who didn’t have a sheet just bundled up in their heavy raincoats. Water still slid down the embankment and fell into their holes despite the angles, warding off sleep.
Those who were standing their posts hunched on the parapet, some using the mantles attached to their raincoats as head covers to keep the rain off their faces. They hugged the ground and kept their heads low. Mud smeared their helmets so as to help them blend in with the clots of wet earth which lined the trenches.
In between the cuts in the trench walls were a few bomb-proof shelters. Because it was daylight and smoke trails were highly visible to hostile artillery observers, no one was permitted to start a fire in the dugout stove. So, the men who were fortunate enough not to have to be posted in the trench on sentry or support duty were shivering in their bunks.
To return to this wet, muddy scene after enduring such a shell might have been a shock to Marsh Silas once. But life was tumultuous and had bred an apathy in him. All these rat-infested trenches, half-filled with water, the impact craters that had become ravines and ponds. Huge mounds of disturbed earth, buried bunkers, collapsed tunnels, and sunken vehicles. Artillery from the subterranean mountain fortresses adjacent to Kasr Sonnen fired incessantly, creating a constant, loathsome rumble. Snipers fired, mines detonated, and machine guns rattled—always, there was noise. Trouser dry-liners that proved flimsy, unnecessarily bulky rain jackets that became sopped, show packs that became mounds of mud desensitized a Guardsman. Subjected to it for so long, Marsh Silas could no longer muster the energy to maintain his startled emotions.
Trenches sometimes filled with water all the way to the waist of the average Cadian. Impact craters became muddy ponds of various depths. Men were now instructed not to take cover in new shell craters as they would quickly fill with water and wounded men, unable to remove themselves, could drown. Improperly braced earthen walls collapsed from the weight of moisture and men suffocated under the heavy mud. Vehicles became bogged down or stuck in ditches. In extreme weather conditions, lighter aircraft remained grounded and air support became an issue. And even though the camp’s proximity to Kasr Sonnen was closer than ever, the washed-out roads, bad weather, and difficult terrain made the transfer of supplies and reinforcements very difficult.
To get to Bloody Platoon’s position, they had to pass through the 45th Altridge Regiment. There were some familiar faces and courteous nods and quick waves were exchanged. At the plucking of a guitarran, Marsh lifted his head and smiled. Afdin was sitting cross-legged on the parapet so his boots stayed out of the water.
“Why don’t you play a jaunty tune for once?” When Afdin looked up, grinning, Marsh swept his arm to the side. “Read the room, why don’t ye? Look at all these happy faces, eh?”
“You’re as charming as ever, my friend.”Afdin set the instrument aside, stood up, and shook Marsh’s hand. In the same moment, they drew each other close, touching shoulders, and clapping each other on the back. “Off on another—”
There were a few thuds in the bottom of the trench. Marsh looked down to see a pair of grenades near his feet. “Scatter!” Afdin screamed and dove to the side, taking Marsh with him. The detonations rocked the trench and hot shrapnel dug into the muddy soil.
“Contact front! Enemy raiders!”
“Back on the parapet!” Men jumped to their posts and started firing. Marsh briefly looked over to the top to see more Band of Dusk soldiers charging out of a series of craters strung along the open ground in front of the trench. “Silas, hit the clacker!” Afdin yelled, pointing to a wounded man collapsing at their side. Marsh snatched it up and hit the trigger several times. Mines exploded in the earth right where the raiders were attempting to cross. Black mud sprayed in all directions and the firing ceased. When the mud finished falling and splattering, the raiding party was gone.
There were no triumphant shouts, just a series of aggravated complaints from the living and moans from the wounded. Field chirurgeons came by to evacuate the injured and troops who hadn’t been standing a post returned to their dugouts. In a few moments, the tired air returned to the defenders as if there had been no attack. “Don’t ye look a sight?”
“That was from earlier, if you can believe it. Another one?”
“I was expecting that raiding party last night. They grow bolder and wiser, I fear.” His gaze tore away from the battlefield and returned to Marsh Silas. “You two are heavily laden.”
“Thought I’d enjoy the fine morning air, maybe partake in a firefight or two, and ended up picking up a few things. I’ve got you some ammunition for those heavy bolters.” Afdin sighed in relief as he took the belts from him.
“Many thanks, Silas. You and your comrades have been true brothers to us.” The platoon leader grew somber. “I am sorry for that day Osniah pulled us away from supporting you. It was not our choice to abandon you, but his. Scuttlebutt says that he communicated with another high-ranking officer, maybe your colonel, and they didn’t want us helping you when you were covering yourself with glory.”
“It’s not about blasted glory,” grumbled Marsh Silas. “I do not have the zeal to be angry about it now. I’ve been through much this morn. But we blame you not. You have become good soldiers.”
“Thanks to you.”
“It all starts within,” Marsh assured him and thumped his friend on the chestplate. Afdin smiled bashfully, then held up his hand.
“Wait a moment. Your Carstensen passed through earlier, she indicated you were going on a mission. Let me and a squad come along as thanks.”
“I will not deny your support. Come along.”
It only took Afdin a few minutes to assemble a party of Altridge Guardsmen, armed them, and led them after Isenhour and Marsh Silas. It was not long before they joined Bloody Platoon one hundred meters down the line. All were muddy and soaked, but clad in their wargear and ready to go. They were cheered by the sight of Marsh Silas, Isenhour, Afdin, and the Altridge folk. Many handshakes and brotherly taps were exchanged. Of course, the supplies they brought were quite welcomed. Helmets were filled with the essentials and passed around. Gloved hands dipped into each one, plucking charge packs, fragmentation grenades, and dry rations out. There was still time after the platoon equipped itself, so everyone stopped to have a ration. While everyone else ate, Marsh Silas conferred with Hyram and Carstensen, who were both gazing at the former’s map book.
“…call came in earlier that the Bingo Boulevard on the right flank has been rendered impassable because of the latest barrage. We’ll have to take Assassin’s Avenue if we want to move forward. We’ll be relieving the 3rd Company of the 95th and they’ll be taking up our positions here. No offensive action has been planned unless we see targets of opportunity.”
“All these routes are bad. But there is no changing them.” Hyram nodded in agreement, then looked up at Marsh Silas and grinned.
“I see you have brought gifts! And without getting your heads blown off. Well done.”
“Your proclivity for survival is noted, Guardsman,” Carstensen jested.
“I have a keen interest in survival, madam Commissar,” Marsh replied tiredly.
The route was planned, the troops were assembled, and upon a communique from Captain Giles, Bloody Platoon set out. Hyram took point, Carstensen brought up the rear, and Marsh Silas placed himself in the center. Nobody spoke or sang. Heavy boots squished and thudded in the muddy trenchworks.
At first, the men stood erect as they marched along. But as they left the safety of the Imperial lines and entered the maze of trenches crossing no man’s land, they spread out and crouched. Artillery shells continued to soar and whistle over their heads. Anti-material rifles cracked and boomed. Mines exploded along the ridgebacks as the attackers and defenders attempted to dig each other out of their caverns.
Around a bend called Tanker’s Rest for the destroyed Leman Russ tank which had fallen into a fork in the trench, its rear end sticking into the air, they spotted movement coming their way. But Bloody Platoon was only on guard for a few moments; it was the 3rd Company of their comrades, the 95th. These Shock Troopers looked particularly haggard from spending nearly a week in the forward trenches, repulsing direct assaults and raids. Their uniforms and armor were so besmirched with mud one could not make out any of the usual Militarum khaki and olive drab. Faces were smeared with soot and mud. Dirt clung and nestled in their blonde and brown beards. Every eye possessed a dark bag underneath it. So many were walking wounded, having lost an arm, a hand, or were limping along. Even those in decent condition were wrapped and laced in bandages.
Communication trenches widened at forks so there was enough space for the two units to pass one another. As they passed by, every man in Bloody Platoon reached out and tapped each 95th Regiment infantryman as they passed by. It was an admission of brotherhood, respect, and understanding, bestowed onto the men relieved of their posts by the troops replacing them. Such a small gesture spoke hundreds of words in just a moment. Each pat on the shoulder said, ‘rest easy, brother, you have done your duty.’
Marsh worked his way past the opposing column, tapping them as they passed by. One man came by with dirty bandages wrapped around his eyes. From the blood trails left on his face, he knew what had befallen him. Just to walk, he had to grasp the trooper in front of him with one hand. When Marsh Silas reached over and touched his shoulder, the wounded man reached across and touched his shoulder.
“It’s quite bad up there, sir,” he said in a quivering voice. “Protect yourself, for the Emperor cannot always be there.”
The movement of the column tore them apart. Marsh tried to look ahead but many times glanced over his shoulder to try glimpsing the man one more time. The blinded man knew his rank. Marsh Silas was quite shaken until he felt Afdin tapped him on the back of his helmet.
“Poor fellow seems quite shell shocked,” he said.
“I pray that won’t be us in seven days,” Marsh grunted.
“Rather be in Kasr Sonnen?”
“Anywhere but here, my friend.” The men of the 95th drew away and soon Bloody Platoon was alone again. Marsh Silas thought it would end there but Afdin spoke up again.
“I see you with that Commissar. Is she your wife?”
“One day, she shall be.” Marsh looked at his boots. “You married?”
“Oh, heavens no. The time for that has come and gone. But you shouldn’t wait any longer!”
“A wedding here in the trenches? I think ye caught some shrapnel in your skull.”
“Not a complete wedding! On Altridge, we have a ceremony of bonding. A cultural tradition, although it does possess its legalities. It puts marriage in motion, though does not sanctify. Consider it a promise, that the party shall one day indeed become man and wife in front of the Emperor. I’d be honored to render the service.”
“You’re not a priest.”
“As I said, it is a legal act as well! Any certified individual can bond the two and I am in possession of such a certificate.”
“Nothing like that will carry Cadia.”
“And I pose, who cares? Not the Emperor, that’s for sure.” Marsh Silas found himself smiling. Eventually, shaking his head at this nonsense, he looked over his shoulder.
“I just might have to take you up on such a—”
There was a deafening blast and Marsh’s world became dark. In that instant, he felt himself tumbling, but then flattened and smothered. A great weight was set upon him and he could not move. He was trapped under something heavy and wet. It was utterly impossible to flex his fingers or wiggle his feet. Whether he was upright, upside down, on his side, on his back, he could not tell. He tried to breathe—there was no air! Dirt was in his mouth, nose, and even his ears. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe! He felt his heart beating, the veins bulging in his neck, his eyes bulging in their sockets. Every attempt to extricate himself failed, piling in more earth to trap himself. He tried to scream but his mouth was clogged with foul tasting soil. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Tightening like a vise, the constriction in his chest grew. It seemed like his lungs would burst. Every vein swelled and throbbed so painfully he thought they were exploding. He asked for the Emperor, for his friends, for his mother, anyone to come and save him.
Something lightened on his legs—one was set free! Someone pulled on his boot. More earth was removed. Little by little, he felt the load lighten. This was when he was most afraid, as he felt like the frayed end of a rope as it unraveled. He had no breath left and just when he was about to be freed!
There was a great heave and someone rolled Marsh onto his back. He vomited; saliva, bile, and mud ran out of his mouth. Mud clods still covered his face and he frantically tried to remove them. Other hands ran over his face and fought to keep his hands down. All he could hear were muffled thuds, gunfire, and shouts. It all seemed so distant. Something scraped his inner ears and he was barraged with noise. Explosions, lasgun fire, bullets cracking through the air, and screaming soldiers.
“Stop moving!” he heard Afdin yelled.
“Bloody Platoon, stand fast!” Carstensen hollered. “Staaaaand! Staaaaaand!”
“Yoxall, plug the fucking holes!” Hyram ordered. “Give them everything you’ve got, Guardsmen!”
Finally, the mud was pulled from his face. Afdin filled his vision, his eyes appearing through a sheen of mud. It seemed like they were sitting in a misshapen crater, with many crevices and piles of earth. Trench walls were destroyed and there were wounded men everywhere. Troops from other platoons were present and even some men of the 95th were back.
At the top of the crater, heretics fired down from the edge but were quickly shot down. Others appear through a gaping tunnel on the opposite end of the crater. Scores fell under concentrated volleys of lasbolts. But Traitor Marines joined their ranks. Men slinged krak grenades, lobbed satchel charges, and erected heavy weapons at point blank range. Walmsley Minor didn’t even mount his weapon on the tripod. Utilizing the strength-enhancing servos of his mechanical rig, he held the heavy bolter by the hip while his twin fed it with a belt. Standing in full view of the tunnel, he squeezed the trigger and nearly stumbled back. The recoil from the weapon was so great Drummer Boy ran over to support his back. A stream of bolts poured into the tunnel, cutting down several heretics and Traitor Marines, practically slicing them in two.
Guardsmen streamed over, around, or into the crater. Shock Troops dueled with bayonets, trench knives, and swords over mounds of mud and piles of bodies with the foe. Hyram stood on an embankment with Babcock and barking orders. Arnold Yoxall bravely ran forward and lobbed a satchel charge at the tunnel entrance, but it fell short. A shower of earth splashed into it, obstructing slightly. The blast killed a squad of heretics and demented cultists, but did not halt the flow entirely. To the left, Isenhour slid behind a length of blasted trench wall just as a heretic approached to attack the center of the Imperial position. He grabbed the enemy’s barrel, swung him around the corner against the earth wall, and sank his trench knife into his gullet.
“Get into the fight!”
Janus, the White Consuls Scout Marine, came into view firing his boltgun. Several of his compatriots were with him and started advancing towards Hyram. Afdin, found Marsh’s M36 and thrust it into his hands. He grabbed his webbing and tried to pull him.
“Come on, Silas! We need to fight!”
Marsh, exhausted, still rose to his feet. He shook so hard his teeth rattled and his legs trembled as if suffering in a blizzard. He spit, pressed his stock to his shoulder, and walked up beside Hyram. But, instead of shooting, he held his lasrifle up so the rainy winds caught the dirty, bloodied banner still hanging from his bayonet.
“That’s it, Bloody Platoon! Hold your position! Give’em hell! They shan’t take us this time!” Marsh roared over the noise. But just after he spoke, the enemy’s fire abated. Those in view fell out of sight. Marsh Silas felt great relief and let his head fall back against the mud.
“Is that you, Bloody Platoon?” called an eerily familiar voice.
Marsh quickly ordered everyone into cover and slid down the embankment he was standing on. He and Hyram exchanged bewildered glances.
“It is Bloody Platoon you face!” he finally shouted back. “And what does my determined enemy, Consus, want with us?”
“Oh, a great many things!” came the delighted reply. “I have heard your name long before this day. You may have slain Drusus, but he hath left many a record of the Imperial scum who plagued him so: a band of Guardsmen hiding among the hinterland known only as Bloody Platoon. What a misfit bunch of fools, although Drusus was the greatest fool of all, to allow himself to be slain by mere mortals.:
“He was the first and by the mountains of your own dead, we both know he won’t be the last!” Marsh taunted. There was booming laughter.
“I did not believe Summanus when he told me you have quite the spark, Marsh Silas. We did not get to fight so intimately at the Battle of the Spire. And though you did not hear my voice, it was my armored column which drove you from the high ground at that hill you fought so hard to take. How familiar we are to one another as we bring our forces to bear on one another. But we both know who will lead his followers to victory.”
Before Marsh could reply, the voice boomed once more. “Know your days are numbered, Bloody Platoon. For I am the Warsmith Consus and before my time is up, Cadia will burn, and you along with it!”