Marsh Silas strolled down the stuffy tunnels that made up the honeycombed complex of the under-barracks. The musty smell of brown soil and pale stone as well as the dank odor of wood from so many support beams permeated the air. Purification oils, cleansing solutions, armor and boot polish, burning lho-sticks, and cooking meat all left their scents.
Ducking into the central communal area, he found Drummer Boy two skillets on the flat top of their pot-bellied stove. Around him were Foley, Logue, Mottershead, Hitch, Tatum, and Fleming Everyone was sitting at the tables, leaning against the tunnel timbers, or hunched in one of the bunk cuts into the rock. Guardsmen talked in low tones as they played a hand of Black Five, smoked, or ate dry and cold portions from their rations. Some who opened up the sealed packages were greeted with the rotten scent of spoiled foodstuffs that were supposedly preserved. Promptly tossed into one of the waste basins they kept around, they angrily opened another ration in the hopes of finding something better or at least fresher. Contents that proved to be edible and desirable were placed on the table as bets. Others were more stingy and didn’t wagered with some of their pay—golden coins bearing visages of the Golden Throne.
“How’s the game going?” Marsh asked, poking his head in. Everyone looked up at him.
“Hey, Marsh Silas.”
“How goes it, Marsh Silas?”
“This here grenade thumpin’ son of a bitch has got every card in the deck.”
“If you be accusing me o’ cheatin’ you’ll be eating my knuckles instead o’ that ration.”
“Try not to kill each other over a game,” Marsh ordered, smiling. “Drummer Boy, whatcha got for us?”
Drummer Boy turned around with an unsatisfied expression. With a wave of his arm, he motioned to the dark meat sizzling on the pan.
“I ain’t got any idea as to what this meat here is. It ain’t Grox that’s for sure. Might be better in a stew, methinks.”
“Whatever you gotta do so that we ain’t eatin’ cold tonight, do it,” Marsh ordered.
Marsh Silas departed and went to 3rd Squad’s section of the barracks. While many had doffed their Flak Armor and helmets, they were still dressed in their winter uniforms. Walking in, he found Sergeant Queshire crouched on the floor facing his bunk. He was rummaging through his rucksack. Coming up behind him, the platoon sergeant tapped him on the shoulder. “I need your men on first watch.”
Queshire sighed, clearly disappointed at the prospect of standing guard in the cold for several hours. Marsh understood and didn’t hold it against him or anyone else. Just because it was their duty didn’t mean they had to like it. Just as long as they performed it ably, they could complain about it all they wanted.
The squad leader picked up his Flak Armor and began to put it on. As he put his helmet on, he turned back to Marsh.
“Any reason in particular why you be choosin’ me first?”
“Because I like you the least,” Marsh joked as he marched out.
“Well, ain’t that somethin’? Turns out I don’t much like you neither,” Queshire said in a chiding tone. He waved him off dismissively but still smiled.
Marsh weaved through the tunnels and checked on every single group of Guardsmen until he ended up in his section. There he found Arnold Yoxall already laying in his own bunk, polishing his trench knife with a clean rag. Across the room was Babcock who was leaning against the wall as he spoke to Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor, who were sitting shoulder to shoulder on a lower bunk.
Upon seeing the platoon sergeant, everyone greeted him with a hearty, ‘Marsh Silas!’ He returned the greeting as he put his soft-cover NCO cap, cartridge belt, and his brown leather holster on his bunk. “Get yourselves to the communal area, Drummer Boy be whippin’ something up for us.”
“Hopefully it tastes as good as it smells,” Babcock remarked. He made a fist and gently tapped Marsh’s shoulder with it as he passed. Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor clapped him on top of his shoulder as well. It was a familiar greeting between Cadian Guardsmen, one of many greetings to denote respect and comradeship. But when Yoxall got up, he didn’t make such a gesture. Instead, he held up his forefinger—the signature of Bloody Platoon. First of the first. Marsh reciprocated, but was then surprised as Yoxall drew his arm so his elbow was parallel to his waist. Then, he cocked his forearm up and out slightly. His fingers curled into a fist. He held the gesture even after he passed through the entrance and followed the others down the hall. Blinking, Marsh Silas walked back through and watched his friend, disappearing and reappearing in the alternating lights of the tunnel, until he was out of his sight.
Such a salute was rarely performed, for it was adopted from the signature of the Inquisitor who fought with them so long ago. On occasion, Marsh used it himself, and over the months the men of the platoon had as well. Some days, when the platoon sergeant gave and received it, he didn’t pay it much mind. On rare occasions, he was struck by images of his long lost friend drifting through the camp at night, disappearing into the shadows while maintaining his mark. Such a sight used to fill him with suspicion, wonder, and even dread. Now, such memories brought about a melancholy that was not easily shaken.
Leaning against the timber support beam of the entrance, he stared down the tunnel for a long time. He didn’t move, speak, and hardly blinked. His violet eyes sustained a hopeful but firm expression. I shan’t be coming down the tunnel, Silvanus. Marsh leaned his head against the wood, his smoothed hair ruffling somewhat. Exhaling, he looked down at his boots and his hands fiddled with his belt buckle, having nothing else to occupy them.
“I know,” the platoon sergeant whispered and turned around. He went to the curtain which separated Lieutenant Hyram’s chamber from the rest of the platoon’s. Reaching in, he drummed his fingers against the wooden trim outlining the entrance. “Staff Sergeant Cross requesting permission to enter, sir.”
“Granted.”
He found the platoon leader hunched over the table he used as a desk. Before him was his Data-slate as well as a number of documents and a large map he brought with him during their forays into the Cadian hinterland. Much of the paperwork consisted of copies of the after action reports he sent up to company headquarters and then passed up to the Regiment—what the men used in place of the designation ‘Regimental Command.’ Lines of text were circled in red field-quill ink or underlined. On the map, a number of spots were circled and had small notes written beside them. Hyram himself was scribbling in his logbook. Leaning over the desk, he propped his left arm on the edge and rested his forehead against his palm. His fingers clutched a bundle of locks from his bright blonde hair. Beside him was a tin mug of untouched recaf. It was still hot and steam rose from it, drifting upwards in the glow of the amber lamp pack on the far corner.
For a time, Hyram didn’t speak or even look at Marsh Silas. Eventually, the platoon sergeant walked over, pulled up a stool, and sat beside him. He examined the documents; many of the circled or underlined segments denoted locations. The southern coastal road, northern coastal road, the northern main supply route or MSR, several of the western trails used to break into the countryside or traverse the coast adjacent to Army’s Meadow and Kasr Fortis. Eastern mountain auxiliary passes, the eastern main route, and the northern supply route again. Words like ‘ambush,’ ‘large heretical force,’ ‘well-armed cultists,’ ‘no enemy camp sites found,’ ‘outside artillery range,’ and, ‘reliant on air support,’ appeared multiple times. The more he studied, the more he found these were not just Hyram’s after action reports; there were reports from 2nd and 3rd platoons as well. Then, he found more reports from 2nd and 3rd Companies. More surprisingly were documents from units outside of the 1333rd Regiment; tactical squadrons from the Navis Imperialis, convoys conveying personnel from the Departmento Munitorum’s Engineer and Labour Corps, Interior Guard units, supply convoys, and other Cadian regiments. Similar language was circled and underlined throughout all the paperwork.
Tidying up the desk without disturbing his superior officer, Marsh stacked the paperwork and slid it next to the map. He then brought the map closer to him, carefully but ensuring that it made a slight rasping sound. A teasing smile tugged at his lips at the obnoxious noise and he glanced at Hyram from the corner of his eye. But the platoon leader continued to take notes, his brow furrowed over his violet eyes and his mouth pressed into a tight line. Disappointed, Marsh’s smile fell and he gazed at the map. At first, there appeared to be no correlation between the circled locations. He stared and stared, his disinterested gaze slowly narrowing. Marsh realized these were all the spots in which Bloody Platoon were ambushed, as well as other units from within and without the Regiment.
Hyram suddenly slammed his finger down on the greatest density of red circles. It was a spot Marsh Silas was well aware of. The northern coastal road merged into the northern supply route, which continued running to the far north. Auxiliary paths weaved through Dagger Mountains—named so for its similar shape to the weapon— to this route. They all traced back to the highest peak on the southern part of the range, known as the Cross-Guard, where Kasr Sonnen sat.
Marsh was quite familiar with the kasr now. All of his recent furloughs were taken there, and the familiar sights of the Aust, Gallus, and Piscator ridges along the southern loop were pleasant sights. The journey, from the climb from the low coastal road around the southern tip of the mountains to that steady upward drive to the city itself, was always beautiful to him. Kasr Sonnen stood formidably, overlooking the western basin where Army’s Meadow and Kasr Fortis lied, and to the Sonnen Plateau which was hemmed in by ridges. The entire mountain range was a bristling, subterranean fortress. Countless artillery and rocket batteries, garrisons, bunkers, pillboxes, and even an underground railway which ran from Kasr Sonnen all the way out of the mountains and into the northern flats, characterized this bastion.
Because Army’s Meadow and by extension the Sonnen region had become busier sectors, Cadian High Command recognized the need for it to have a more direct route to the kasr. Relying on air support was a brittle option, so a joint effort between the Engineer Corps, Labour Corps, and the Adeptus Mechanicus was ordered to make a new route. It took a few months of blasting, tunneling, paving, and fortifying, but eventually many auxiliary roads connected the mountain fortress and underground complexes with the coastal roads. This route halved the journey from Army’s Meadow to Kasr Sonnen and facilitated more troop movements and supply convoys in the region. Mimicking the jagged roadways within a Kasr, these routes were defended by extensive bunker networks and automated defenses. More artillery and anti-air defenses were installed with countless redoubts manned by Interior Guardsmen.
Hyram tapped the spot where many of the auxiliary routes merged with the northern MSR. It was dubbed the Murga Junction, after the deceased company commander who gave up his life during the Raid on Kasr Fortis. “They’re concentrating their efforts here. The heretics are planning something. I just know it.”
“Where did you get all this?” Marsh asked, jerking his thumb towards the moderate stack of paperwork.
“I requested Captain Giles for this intelligence. He may not be the regimental intelligence officer anymore but he still fills the role quite well.” After Murga’s death, Giles took command of 1st Company and brought his assistant, 1st Lieutenant Eastoft, on as the new executive officer. Everyone in the company was satisfied with the transition of command, especially Bloody Platoon who had served with Both Cadians during the raid. Giles was more relaxed than Murga but he was a Cadian through-and-through.
Hyram pushed his data-slate out of the way and pulled the map closer to him. “This is not difficult, Silas. A dedicated officer has many resources available to him. Intelligence, data, reports, anything can be of use. It’s all right here!” he angrily tapped the stack of papers. “Colonel Isaev has even greater access than me yet does nothing. It is all quite clear; he is not only ignorant of threat but is in utter disbelief.” The Lieutenant looked up sharply. “When you become an officer, dear friend, you must never indulge complacency. Listen to your subordinates, review your intelligence—always be ready for the enemy. You hear me?”
“I hear you, sir.”
“Look here. We’re not the only ones getting hit. Every time a unit goes out, they’re ambushed. Probing attacks against the auxiliary roads have occurred just like here on Army’s Meadow. Yet Colonel Isaev, the commandant here in the western area, does nothing!”
He reached under the table and pulled out a secure carrier bag. Opening it, he pulled out another map. It portrayed the same geographic region as the first map but there were more Astra Militarum installations noted on this one. All of the tunnel networks, bunker systems, and other fortifications along the Dagger Mountains were revealed. A heavier concentration was at Locket Mountain. “There is a push coming. I can feel it, so can Carstensen, you, and any man in this regiment. And do you know what the theorists at Cadian High Command believe? If there is a major action, it will occur in the east on the Kasr Sonnen Plateau. There are similar actions there as well, but with Isaev’s assurances that our sector is secure, they’re concentrating forces there. It’ll leave the west open to an attack.”
In frustration, Hyram covered his face with his hands and massaged his temples. Marsh took the map and examined it along with the other reports. He correlated Hyram’s notes with the data and marks on the map.
“It has to be a buildup. You’d think with all the raggedy-ass little bastards we’ve gunned down, the attacks would decline. But these probes and ambushes, they’re intensifying and occurring more frequently,” Marsh pointed out.
“We’ve barely chipped them and we certainly haven’t checked them,” Hyram rested his cheek against his hand and exhaled irritably. “I fear the worst, Marsh Silas. If the enemy does come, and they certainly shall at this rate, they will attack Kasr Sonnen from both west and east.”
“Aye, and if they’re smart about it, they’ll cut off Army’s Meadow from the mainland and isolate the garrison at Kasr Fortis so we can’t reinforce Kasr Sonnen.” He leaned back and cupped his chin. “And if they seize the southern loop and the ridges around Sonnen, they’ll cut it off completely. Shit.”
“Where are they?” Hyram seethed, pulling the map back to him. He loomed over it and his finger traced patterns along the many ridges, hills, bluffs, and flatlands that made up the hinterland north of Army’s Meadow. Marsh watched for a time as his commanding officer continued to search the map, as if the evidence he was searching for was there somehow.
This is how an officer is supposed to act, he thought. A man who considers both strategy and tactics, one who can look far ahead from today or tomorrow and prepare. Not for accolades or glory, but to serve his Emperor and keep his men alive, as well as those millions of denizens counting on their protection. Marsh studied his friend and commanding officer, witnessing such greatness in a man who was once so timid. He prayed that when he received his officer ascension promotion, he would bring these lessons with him.
Hyram muttered to himself. Eventually, Marsh smiled and clutched the Lieutenant’s hand. It didn’t make him stop. “What am I failing to understand? There must be some proof, some trick, some knowledge I am missing. They have a campsite, a base, but if neither air nor ground assets have found them, they must be highly mobile—”
“Sir.”
“—but if they’re moving, how could we possibly find them?”
“Sir.”
“There’s just so much ground. Where are they getting their supplies? It must be near the ambush sites!”
“Alright, that’s enough sir,” Marsh said, letting go of Hyram’s wrist and picking up the maps. He folded everything and then tucked them into the leather carrier bag along with the documents. Closing the bag, he tucked it under the table and turned around. Picking up the tin mug, he forced into it Hyram’s hand. “Drink.”
“And the Colonel won’t let me take us out based on my suspicions.”
“Drink.”
Reluctantly, Hyram took a long sip. Leaning back in the chair, he ran his hand through his hair until it became a wild mess. Even his thick, bushy sideburns seemed disheveled. Groaning, he took another drink and sank in the chair.
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“We’ve got to figure it out otherwise a lot of good Cadians might get killed.”
“Well, methinks ol’ Cadia will still be standing on the morrow, so why don’t rest while we can?”
He expected that would elicit a chuckle or at least a chuckle. Instead, Hyram planted his hand over his face, draped his head back over the backrest of the chair, and groaned very loudly. “That didn’t sound so good, sir.”
Hyram spread his fingers and looked at Marsh Silas between his middle and ring fingers.
“I just remembered the Whiteshields are coming. Just what we need; fresh, untested troops.” Hyram lowered his hand, shook his head, and sat up. Leaning forward, he held the tin mug with both hands. The steam continued to rise, coursing around his cheeks. He seemed more exhausted than he already was. His gaze shifted to the framed pict-captures of his families on the stone shelf adjacent to his desk. Hyram lingered on the image of his son, Sydney.
“Sir, I actually meant to talk to you about that,” Marsh said as he sat back down. “I’m asking you not to take up the rotten work details and act as assistants, nor that we use them as fodder. I will help them. I’m going to show them the way. Our way. Fighting smart, no foolish bravery, no wasted lives. I’ll show them how to read, how to write, I’ll protect them from hazing and cruel punishments. I’ll do more than that; I’ll teach them what Barlocke taught me: the Imperium needs saving and we must change it for the better to do so.”
Hyram’s eyebrows had risen in surprise and curiosity. Marsh smiled widely. “I’ve been looking for a way to help folks, Seathan. This is the way. We start with ten kids, just ten, and we get them through this alive. If we can make a difference for ten souls, why, we can make a difference for another ten.”
“And another ten, and another, and another,” Hyram murmured. He smiled and nodded. “I see it, Silas. This is how it starts. We bring some humanity into this army; we do not cast the young ones into the fire aimlessly, we treat them like soldiers and help them fight. Not only that, if you succeed, this will look well on your record. It may be taken into account regarding your officership.”
“Well, I suppose so, but I just want to help those kids,” Marsh insisted. “They’re getting cast into a regiment like ours. The fights we face will be harder than the ones Youth Regiments first encounter. I want to keep them alive and give them more than what I had.”
Hyram grimaced. His gaze returned to the pict of his son. Even from the side, his staring was intense and forlorn. When he turned back, he looked down into his cup.
“Children they’ll be. Their heads filled with tales of valor. Their zealousness will verge on foolishness and stupidity. They do not know of life’s accidents,” Hyram murmured.
It was not so much the words themselves as it was Hyram’s morose tone. He was an incredibly articulate man and, compared to his old-self, he was highly motivated. But it was the smiling face of his young son and that of his beautiful wife in the pict-captures that brought about his weaknesses. After giving the pictures a glance, Marsh leaned forward.
“You know, I think some folks in this life are meant to be parents. My mama and papa, they loved me, but I doubt they were meant to become a family. Like them, mine is a soldier’s life. I suppose one day, Cadia will have to issue me a wife.” This made him chuckle and Hyram, who at first tried to resist, broke into a smile as well. Reaching out, he grasped the junior officer by his shoulder. “The Emperor saw it fit to make you the rare man who has that kind of love in your heart. Your heart o’ hearts, like Junior Commissar Carstensen is fond o’ sayin’. One day, when yer demobilized, you’ll be goin’ back to that family o’ yours. But right now, you’re Shock Trooper, a regular ol’ gunman, and a leader. That’s what Bloody Platoo needs you to be. What it needs me to be. And most of all, that’s what these Whiteshields need.”
“What a tonic you are, my friend. You have my permission to train up the new lads,” Hyram stated. “They may not know what they need, but they’ll learn very quickly what they’ll get: Marsh Silas.”
***
The day finally arrived. The 1333rd Cadian Regiment, formed, stood in the main compound. Chimera APCs rolled into the camp and lined up in the widest section of the parade grounds. They dropped their ramps and the Whiteshields hurried out. This was the cue from dozens of platoon sergeants, including Marsh Silas, to storm forward and start screaming at them. Marsh Silas was positively ecstatic.
“Line up right now you scrawny bootlicks!”
“Move it, you dogs or else you’ll get a lickin’!”
“How are you expected to charge the enemy if you move that slow!?”
“Two lines, right here, right now, or you’ll be getting the boot!”
“Not fast enough! Shall we fire upon your feet to make you move!?”
The NCOs plowed through the crowd of Whiteshields, pushing, shoving, sometimes dragging them, tripping them, throwing their massive shoulder bags on the ground and making them pick it back up. Stomping around, they hollered right in their faces, hurled insults, and knocked their soft-cover caps off. Marsh grabbed one young man by the back of his collar when he began walking in the wrong direction and threw him on the ground, sending him skidding across the snowy pavement. He ordered another to hold his bag over his head but the young man dropped it. Storming over, grabbed him by his winter coat’s collar, jostled him heavily, shoved him, grabbed him before he stumbled, stood him up, and then ordered him to pick his bag back up. All around them, the veterans smiled and did their best not to laugh. Some of their expressions were sweet, as the memories of their time as Whiteshields were pleasant now despite such treatment and terrible battles.
The Whiteshield Sergeants who were with them were not spared. Each one had a document showing who was in which squad as well as the platoon they were to be assigned to. These manifests were promptly seized by the veteran NCOs. While the other NCOs had to use the pictorial images to form the squads up, Marsh was able to read the names and call them out. Whiteshields milled back and forth trying to reform their squads.
Passing another one, Marsh tugged on the short braid her hair was in, forcing her to stop, and then shoved her into another line. Another bumbling Whiteshield came by and he went out of his way to trip him. “Get back into that line! You must have Grox shit instead of a brain!” Wheeling around, he got right in the face of third Whiteshield. “If you’re the best that Cadia has got to offer, I’m finding myself another Fortress World to serve on. By the Throne, you insult the Emperor just by drawing breath! Oh, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we!? Get moving!”
He backed off a few steps to reread some of the names. Hyram was nearby and he looped his arm around Marsh’s.
“Silas, I thought you were going to be a bit…kinder to them. You seemed to have said as much.”
“Aye, I will, but I doubt Isaev and his staff will understand or appreciate that,” he answered. “I’m putting on a show so nobody decided to snoop and crush our little plan. An’ remember, they’re still soldiers. They gotta follow orders.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
“Get moving you dogfaces! That’s what you are all: hounds! Hell, you there, you even look like one! Where’s your collar, boy!?” The elicited laughter from Bloody Platoon and Marsh flashed them a smile. Carstensen seemed especially entertained and seeing her delighted expression made Marsh all the more energetic.
Then, it was all over. The Whiteshields were organized into cohorts of ten soldiers each and made to stand in two lines of five. A perfect meter of space separated each squad. Platoon sergeants found their charges and stood before them. A tense silence dawned over the entire 1333rd as Colonel Isaev, Commissar Ghent, and a menacing cadre of officers approached. Folding his hands behind his back, he puffed out his chest and raised his chin so he was looking down at them past his gnarled nose. Everyone, including the more experienced men in front of the new arrivals, saluted.
“My name is Colonel Isaev. Beside me is Regimental Commissar Ghent. Cadian High Command has seen fit to send you here. Forget what you might have heard. This is by no means a quiet, cushy sector. Out here, you are expected to work as well as to fight.” He started pacing up and down the line. “Failure to uphold the tenets of the Imperial Creed, failure to obey an order, failure to make the Sign of the Aquila in front of appropriate idols, shrines, officials, and the like shall also result in punishment which befits the crime, from suspension of wages to death. If you manage to survive long enough, you may be allowed to die for the Emperor—the greatest service you could ever perform for the Imperium!”
He stopped at the center of the line and surveyed them. “Do not fail, do not falter, and die well! Sergeants, you have your orders! Regiment, dismissed!”
The entire 1333rd Regiment dispersed. Isaev and his staff returned to headquarters while the bulk of the assembled veterans drifted back to their barracks. Some found out of the way locations among crates or the parked Chimeras, lit their lho-sticks, and began watching. Marsh Silas waited for Hyram and Carstensen to come over before he addressed them. Maintaining an impressive stance, the Lieutenant mimicked the Colonel's posture save for the condescending stare down his nose.
“At ease. I’m Lieutenant Seathan Randolph Hyram. This is Junior Commissar Carstensen and this is your new platoon sergeant, Senior Staff Sergeant Marsh Silas. You are now a part of 1st Platoon, 1st Company, the most distinguished element within the 1333rd Regiment.”
“We have the wounds and the medals to prove it, too,” Marsh added, wearing a kind grin. Carstensen nodded in agreement while Hyram closed his eyes, inhaled sharply, shook his head, and then looked back at the Whiteshields. “In garrison, we maintain a constant state of readiness. You are never to be without some manner of armament on your person or within your reach. If it is not, you are expected to be able to reach and don your wargear within a minute. Your M36 will always be loaded. Your bayonets and trench knives shall always be sharp.”
Many similar conversations were taking place up and down the line. Each of the fourteen-year old Whiteshields, having calmed down from the excitement from earlier, listened diligently. “Marsh Silas, would you please read off the names and take us down the line?”
“Certainly, sir!” he chimed, quite proud to be able to read while other sergeants continued to align picts with faces.
The first name called out belonged to the Whiteshield Sergeant, Clivvy. She was a stout, muscular young woman who kept her hair short instead of in a burn or braid like the two other women in the squad. Her blonde hair verged on a shade of crimson. Marsh was instantly impressed by her steadfast tone as she answered, ‘sir,’ when he called her name. He surmised she took the duty of a Whiteshield Sergeant seriously. Then there was Graeme, the shortest of the Whiteshields. Pale and slender, he stood on the tips of his toes in an attempt to exaggerate his height. Leander, slender but strong looking fellow—was next. His lips formed a natural smile and he had a curious gaze to his bright violet eyes. Merton was broad-chested and strong in his arms, but despite his heavy uniform Marsh could see his legs were on the thinner side. The lad was buck toothed but he seemed to be serious enough. Dark-complexioned , Rayden did not seem to possess the quiet excitement or the stoic professionalism of the others. He seemed more brooding, but the moment Marsh walked in front of him he tried to stand straighter than he already was. Complementing the deep shade of his violet eyes was his shadowy-colored hair. Marsh was used to the blonde heads of his platoon.
In the second line was Rowley. She was slimmer than Clivvy and had a field of freckles across her cheeks. Although her blonde hair was drawn into a tight knot, a few locks fell over her brow and when Marsh walked by her she tried to blow them to the side. She seemed kind and energetic, the latter impressing the platoon sergeant. Soames came next and he was a cocky looking one. He wore his hat to one side of his head and kept it tipped up slightly. The expression on his square face was one of pure confidence. Tattersall was after him and he did his best not to appear timid. There was nothing truly remarkable about him other than his curious gaze and the jagged scar on the left side of his face. Webley was the tallest and although not skinny, she was not robust in her stature either. She instinctively saluted when Marsh walked in front of her and that assured him she was eager to make a good impression. Lastly, there was Yeardley, who wore spectacles like the ones Hyram sometimes wore. His nose was running from the cold air.
“Going to do something about that?” Marsh asked, pointing at his nose with the field-quill.
“Sir, yes, sir!” Yeardley raised his arm as if he were a machine and then wiped his nose on his forearm. When he finished, there was a dark stain on his sleeve and the snot had spread over his lips. “Sir, I think I made it worse, sir!” Marsh’s lips twitched into a smile. Upon seeing that, Yeardley smiled too. He was especially youthful and spry, with a particular boyish roundness to his face. While the others were clearly shaving, there was only a hint of stubble on his cheeks. For some reason, Marsh already liked the lad.
After handing the manifest over, Hyram studied it for a few moments. Then, he slipped into his document carrier bag and they led the detachment back to the barracks. After a brief tour of the trenchworks and the central bunker, they descended into Bloody Platoon’s home. Most of the men were already there and Marsh could tell they had arrayed themselves to some degree to make an impression on the rookies. Logue and Foley were hunched over the communal table, each tinkering with an autopistol. Babcock, standing with his shirt off and a khaki neck cover on, tossed a combat knife from one hand to the other and then quickly threw it toward the Whiteshields. All of the newcomers flinched as the knife embedded into the wooden trim of the entrance.
They walked by more entrances to the other comb-like rooms. Drummer Boy popped out holding two tin mugs filled with recaf. He stopped the detachment.
“Fresh brew for fresh faces,” he chimed. Rowley was closest; after taking a glance at her comrades, she gingerly reached out for it. Sneering, Drummer Boy upended the mug and contents splashed onto her new boots. Gasping, Rowley stepped back and then scowled at him. The Voxman laughed and then looked at Yeardley. “Here, I shan’t do the same to you. Welcome to Bloody Platoon.”
Yeardley cautiously took the mug, nearly bouncing on his feet to dart away in case Drummer Boy pulled the same trick. Instead, the mug was handed over without incident. Smiling at Marsh Silas, Yeardley took such a big gulp that his cheeks puffed out slightly. Then his eyes bulged and he spit the recaf onto the floor. Drummer Boy chortled loudly and slapped his knee. Yeardley dropped the mug and spit several more times.
“Was there piss in that!?”
“Mighta done.”
“You said you wouldn’t do anything to me!”
“That’s where yer wrong, boy, I said I wouldn’t do the same to you.” Drummer Boy departed with a shove from Marsh Silas. Next, the entourage encountered the Walmsley twins. They stood aside respectfully for Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen, but they barged into the Whiteshields. Biffing and pushing they way through, they knocked over a number of the olive drab Militarum-issue bags. Graeme, Merton, and Clivvy were shunted aside so hard they were forced against the walls. Just as they picked themselves up, Stainthorpe and Yoxall came by and emulated the twins. They continued a conversation about Meltaguns as if they did not notice the Whiteshields they were shoving and tripping. When the act was repeated a third time by Tatum, Foster, and Fleming, Marsh shoved them along.
“That’s enough of that,” he said angrily. “Off with you.”
The others took no notice as they departed. Marsh led them to the section where Marsh slept. Confused, the fresh troopers looked around. Clivvy was the one who stepped forward.
“Sir, are we to cut our bunks in the walls above your own? We shall require ladders, then.”
“Nah, you’ll be digging a new compartment on the barracks in the next few days. Until then, you’ll sleep on the floor where I can see ya. Get them kits out.”
The Whiteshields swiftly established their sleeping arrangements. Clivvy orders them to split into pairs and line their sleeping bags against the walls. Their belongings were arrayed immaculately around their spaces. All the while, Marsh donned his Flak Armor. When the Whiteshields looked at him, perplexed once more, he motioned to their own armor pieces. “Get’em on.”
“What for, sir?” Merton ask, clearly put out with his treatment so far. Marsh put on his helmet, picked up his loaded rucksack and swung it over his shoulder, then picked up his M36. “Training begins now.”
“Training?” Graeme echoed. “Sir, we’ve been training for fourteen years!”
“Aye, why do we need to train? We know what we’re about,” Yeardley protested. Marsh tipped his helmet back.
“Do ye? I think not, for you’ve not seen your first battles. Listen up you lot, because this is the news: you don’t know shit. You might think you do, but you ain’t been out here as long as we have. You might not like it, you may think I don’t see you as soldiers. Put that from your minds, as well as all the Colonel’s talk of a glorious death. You’ll be serving the Emperor better if yer alive. I mean to keep you alive. So, we’re gonna work to undo some of the nonsense they taught you in basic training and then I’ll teach how to be real soldiers. First, I need to see what you can do, so quit lollygagging and get moving!”
As confused as they were, the Whiteshields scrambled into action and donned their wargear. On the surface, Marsh Silas led them back down the hill and onto the parade grounds. Other platoon sergeants were bossing their Whiteshields around, ordering them to dig fighting holes away from the trenches or moving supply crates around. Some were barely paying attention to their Whiteshields.
“Senior Staff Sergeant, aren’t we going to the range?” Clivvy asked, pushing her helmet up slightly as it was sagging low over her brow. Marsh turned around and walked backwards towards the gate.
“We’ll see what kinda shots you are later. Right now, I need to know how fast you can move and what you can handle. A good run up and down the entire cape ought to give me a decent idea of how to push you.” He could hear them grumble and that was to be expected. Cadians enjoyed marching, at least those who survived to become Shock Troopers. Less found enjoyment in heavily-ladened physical exercise.
He took the opportunity to review them. Their clothing and armor were all fresh but clearly just given to them on a whim. Uniforms were either too big and baggy or too small and tight on the wrong body region. Webbing couldn’t be properly secured, causing cartridge, pouches, bandoleers, buckles, and clips to catch, and more than one helmet slipped down over their eyes.
Seeing it all again brought Marsh Silas back to his youth and he laughed. “Somethin’ wrong there?” he asked Yeardley. His helmet fell over his eyes again and he pushed it back up.
“Staff Sergeant, this helmet is too big.”
“No, it ain’t.”
“But Sergeant—”
“Now, there ain’t nothing wrong with that helmet. Ain’t too big, your head is too small.” Marsh laughed at this. “That’s what your average quartermaster would say to you, just like one said to me a decade ago. You shall learn and you shall see. After this, I’ll get you outfitted. Just focus on the tasks at hand.” He noticed some rocks somebody had dug up from a trench and piled near the gate. “Ah! Seein’ as how we had to take out your sleeping bags, you ain’t exactly at full weight. Load up one of those rocks into your bags, that ought to do the trick!”
All the Whiteshields groaned apprehensively. Marsh Silas just laughed.