He saw yellow flowers and a dark-haired man strolling through them. His arms were outstretched and his slender fingers danced along each petal. Then there were ten young men and women, children really, all dressed up in their fatigues.
“Sir!” They cheered and saluted. Next, he heard laughter, swearing, and a great deal of merrymaking. A motley assortment of violet-eyed, blonde-haired fellows were spread along the tables, all looking at him joyously. “Silas!” someone called and he turned. Now, he was on a roadside cliff by the sea. A crimson-haired Commissar walked into his arms, kissed him, and wrapped her arms around him. She was so warm, warmer than sunlight. He held her so tightly that he squeezed his eyes shut. Opening them again, he found himself sitting in front of a fireplace. The sweet, buttery scent of rice filled the room.
“Come son, your mother’s made your favorite dish,” exclaimed a big, towering man who picked him up. But when he got up, Marsh Silas found himself standing within a ruin. Before him was a Guardsman wearing a black helm, a long gray coat, and a gas mask. “Tell me, have you forgotten what you’re fighting for?” he asked. Confused and afraid, Marsh turned away. Standing before him, beneath a fluttering flag amid the golden flos infinitus, was Bloody Platoon.
Every single one of them. Soft of face, smiles tender, eyes twinkling. Each with the pleasantness and sweetness of a sibling, so eager and delighted to make the acquaintance of their brother once again. Standing before them all was Hyram, dressed plainly in his khaki fatigues. Next to him was Commissar Ghent, stoic, but very proud. Dayton Cross was astride him, hands resting on the lapels of his coat, just as proud and his eyes filled with a great warmth that only a devoted father could possess. Inquisitor Barlocke’s long coat flowed with the wind and his long hair flew freely in the warm wind that permeated this wonderful place.
In front of them all was Lilias. She did not have her cap or coat on, just her gray trousers and black tunic. Marsh trudged through the grass towards her. He smiled so wide his cheeks hurt. There was a desire to laugh but he remained silent. Lilias walked towards him with her arms outstretched and Marsh, his open arms open, embraced her. Locked around one another, they staggered from foot to foot and pressed their cheeks together.
Finally, they came to a stop. Marsh drew back to gaze at her. Her hand ran down his cheek, the neck, and then she wrapped her fingers around the Aquila hanging from his neck.
“I gave you mine before we parted,” she whispered.
“I had considered giving you my own when we gave you to the sea,” replied Marsh quietly. “But then I decided to return yours, for I knew a day would come when we would meet again in the Emperor’s Celestial Army. When we would meet, there would be no exchange, just a complete return to the lives we led together.”
Lilias smiled up at him, then pressed her lips against his. In the warmth of the sun, in the softness of the flowers, in the company of the people he loved, Marsh Silas felt for the first time, in so long, happy.
----------------------------------------
Marsh awoke to something scraping against his face. Gingerly, groggily, he opened his eyes. A Sister Hospitaller in an azure uniform dipped a razor into a bowl of warm water and carefully ran the blade across his cheek. She did not seem to notice that he was awake. Finishing up, she gently rubbed a cloth over his lower face before departing.
There was a heavy weight on the right side of Marsh Silas’s chest. Turning his head, he found Hyram resting his head there. After taking this sight in for a moment, the platoon leader smirked and played with a lock of his friend’s hair. Hyram lifted his head, then smiled in relief.
“You’re really awake this time,” Hyram said. “You’ve been coming and going these past few days. Oh, my dear brother, I thank the Emperor your eyes are wide open now.”
Hyram leaned over Marsh and kissed him on both cheeks. Marsh returned this gesture and the two embraced tightly.
“How…” Marsh winced as pain shot through his neck.
“Speak softly and slowly. They’ve mended your wound, though it’s left a grisly scar and burn marks too. Do not stress it too much. My word, I thought you had joined the Emperor’s Celestial Army!”
“So…did I…” croaked Marsh. “How did…I…survive? I was shot in my heart,” Marsh rasped. Hyram shook his head and procured the framed pict of Carstensen and himself in the cathedral. A circular mark was in the right corner of the glass and it was cracked all over. Even the wooden frame was damaged.
“The medicae surgeon said the bullet’s trajectory was thrown off when it collided with the frame. It penetrated your flesh, ran along your rib, and exited through your back. Another fine scar. You were also shot in the bladder and your calf, but that was repaired also.”
Marsh Silas took the pict and regarded it warmly. He found himself chuckling.
“My heart of hearts.”
“The miracle of miracles,” Hyram added.
“Summanus’s forces…”
“That was it. You dispatched Summanus and the combined force of the Kasrkin, Adeptus Astartes, and the Army of Sonnen destroyed what was left. Only a few Iron Warriors of the Silvered Maw managed to flee to a few voidships hiding in orbit and they retreated to the Eye of Terror. The same goes for the Black Legion, they’ve withdrawn as well. As for the Band of Dusk and the other heretics in the region, they’ve been killed to a man.”
“I doubt the Black Legion and the Iron Warriors will soon forget our names,” boasted Walmsley Major as he shuffled up. “Drusus, Consus, Summanus, all dead. Why, I never thought we would have the chance to find the Heretic Astartes ever again. At times, I prayed we never would. It was hard fought but Emperor’s teeth, we sure did give them a licking.”
“I pray they never forget the Bloody Platoon,” chimed Arnold Yoxall, who limped on a crutch. “Let them come back, we shall square off with them once more and hasten their decimation. We shall make a mountain of their corpses and at the top, plant our flag in the name of Carstensen the Cadian.”
Marsh Silas gazed between Hyram, Walmsley Major, and Yoxall. Swallowing hard, he leaned towards the former.
“How many of us survived?”
“Bloody Platoon is here. There’s thirty of us now. Drummer Boy, Babcock, Honeycutt, the three Whiteshields, Logue, Foley, Monty Peck, Olhouser, Fleming, Ledford, many are still with us. None of our men perished after dawn. As for the rest of the 1333rd, there’s around two hundred fifty survivors, mostly Guardsmen. Here, do you want to sit up? Bloody Platoon is all here.”
Marsh did so and tears slid down his cheeks. Sitting in chairs and cots, all his friends gazed back at him. Despite their bionic plates and limbs and the layers of bandages around their bodies, they were all smiling. Clivvy, Tattersall, and Rowley all came over and individually hugged him. Soon, a small crowd was around him. Even Effelman, confined to a wheelchair, rolled over to say hello.
“My oh my, to see all your smiling faces,” blubbered Marsh Silas, “what a reward it is. I am the richest man on Cadia, I believe. Isaev is gone, but he can keep all those damned medals and promotions. This is the gift my heart truly desires.
As Marsh adjusted himself, he heard the twinkling of metal. He looked down at the left side of his pillows. There was row after row of shining medals. After studying for some time, he realized many of these were Astartes awards.
“They all came to honor you and this platoon, Lieutenant.” Commissar Ghent emerged from the crowd. Marsh reached up and shook his hand. The two men gazed at one another tenderly. For a moment, their eyes glimmered as they merely looked and smiled. Ghent leaned down, kissed Marsh Silas on his forehead, and tapped the pillow.
There was the Order of the Gate, Ghent explained, awarded by the Angels of Vigilance. The Ruby Hex, awarded by the Crimson Scythes. A Golden Fist, bestowed by Chaplain Anato of the Imperial Fists. From Captain Evander of the White Consuls, the Order Vigilant. The Subjugators had decorated him with the Order of Xanax, named for their homeworld, and the Marines Exemplar gave him the Silver Exemplar. The Knights Unyielding had afforded him the Knight’s Medallion, a golden and armaglass honor, as well as the Order Unwavering.
From the Angels Eradicant came the Order of the Astartes Praeses, as they were the first of the Astartes Chapters so consigned to the ancient compact, as well as Order of the Lightning Angels. The Order of the Legion, of the Viper Legion, the Order of the Honored Penance, from the Brothers Penitent. Of the Iron Talons came the Order of the Talon and from the Night Watch came the Order of the Watchman.
There were dozens of other medals from the Astra Militarum, chief among them the Miltis Honorati and the Cadian Star, two of the highest awards a Cadian Guardsmen could earn. Crosses, achievement and commendation medals, initiative, gallantry, bravery, and merit awards.
Marsh could hardly make a sound. When he looked up at his men, he realized they wore many identical medals from the Adeptus Astartes and the Astra Militarum. Upon Hyram’s chest was the Obscurus Honorifica! Marsh Silas placed his hand over it.
“My word, would you look at that?” he murmured. Hyram chuckled as tears ran down his face. “Hero of the Imperium.”
“Because of your actions, and the actions of these men, von Bracken overruled Colonel Isaev’s issue to suspend us of our awards, promotions, and bonuses. Every single man here has received at least a single jump in grade. I was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Captain and breveted to a full Captain. You were promoted first lieutenant.”
“Thank the Emperor, our men have had their honor returned to them,” said Marsh, his voice quivering. He clasped Hyram’s hands and then many of the Guardsmen assembled around him. “Well done, Shock Troopers, well done, bless your hearts.”
“That’s not all, Silas.” Ghent pointed to Marsh’s heart. The lieutenant craned his neck carefully to see a beautiful, golden medal pinned to his tunic. It was an olive drab ribbon with five, thin columns of gold running along it. The medallion took the form of a complete laurel wrapped around the image of a plant—Cadia.
“The Order of Cadia?” Marsh murmured.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
“Warden-Colonel von Bracken issued it to you while you were resting. He has made you and I both Knights of Cadia for our actions in leading the defense of Army’s Meadow and impeding a counterattack which threatened the entire sector,” Hyram said.
“Your status as a noble has been restored, Silas,” Ghent explained. “You are now the head of your own cadet branch of the Cross family.”
“What an honor to give to a dying man,” was all Marsh could say as the tears coursed down his cheeks. “This is all so much. I don’t even know where I am.”
“You’ll never believe it,” Drummer Boy quipped.
“You’ll have to see it to believe it,” Babcock said too.
“Then get me on my feet, I tire of lying about.”
“Are you sure?” Hyram asked.
“If he’s sure, he’s sure,” Honeycutt muttered. “Nothing we’ll say will stop him. He’s got the force of will our dear departed Carstensen has.”
Marsh Silas, with some help, was able to get his boots on and stand. He was a bit wobbly at first, but managed to get his footing. Together, Bloody Platoon exited the large tent they were in and were bathed in late afternoon sunlight. There was a crisp scent of salty sea air on the gentle winds. Before him was a clear, white-sandy beach. To his right was a tall bluff and to the left was a field of yellow flowers.
“Army’s Meadow?” Marsh asked. “We’re back here?”
The camp’s facilities were in disrepair. Every structure had partially collapsed or was riddled with cannon shells. Shell craters tore up the rockcrete compound. All of the fences were ripped down and the anti-tank obstacles were cleared. Most of the trenches had given way and sinkholes defined the bunkhouses that had crumbled. Torn barbed wire stretched across the perimeter. On the beach, water seeped into the depressions left by bombs.
But the bodies, loyal and traitor both, had been hauled away. Much of the blood, guts, and limbs were cleaned up as well. Menials of the Labor Corps toiled to repair the facilities, tear down those that could not be salvaged, and build up new ones. Cranes hauled prefabricated dwellings to different locations while Cargo-8’s delivered multiple loads of materials. Priests and their retinues marched solemnly throughout the base, sanctifying the rockcrete building stones, watchtowers, and armor plates.
Similar activity occurred across the channel. An army of engineers, laborers, and servitors worked to clear away the wreckage from Kasr Fortis. Cranes swung back and forth, Valkyrie Sky Talons disgorged tons of supplies, and salvage vessels bobbed in the port. Dozens of more ships surrounded the area where the Iron Warrior voidship had sunk.
Hyram strode beside Marsh Silas, keeping one arm wrapped around his. He gestured to the denizens as they worked.
“We were all treated in Kasr Sonnen over the past few weeks, but once all our conditions were stable, we were shipped back here. Many casualties were accrued on the mainland during the fight against Summanus’s holdout and they needed the space for more serious cases,” Hyram explained. He walked out in front and motioned behind him. “We live in temporary housing for now while the 10th Kasrkin supports us here.”
“For how long?” asked Marsh. “The regiment barely numbers a full two companies. Are we to receive replacements? Who would take command? Will we be integrated into a new unit?”
“Your new unit might be very close by, Marsh Silas.”
The crowd turned around. Warden-Colonel von Bracken, dressed in green fatigues, came strutting towards him. Everyone saluted and he graciously returned it. “Back on your feet already, son?”
“An infantryman cannot lay around forever, sir,” Marsh rasped. “Thank you for aiding us.”
“Thank you for holding out. Every minute you and your comrades contained the enemy, you saved thousands of lives. You are heroes, worthy of the honors bestowed upon you. The name Cross used to mean something in certain circles and it appears it does so again. A nobleman, however great or minor, is a man to be respected. You’ve got to look the part, Lieutenant. So when you are rested and able, you’ll be trading that uniform for a new one, a few new ones at that, and you will join my regiment.”
Marsh Silas’s eyes widened. Von Bracken nodded. “You’ve proved yourself time and again, son. More so, you proved the ideas you, Hyram, and the departed Commissar Carstensen espoused. Despite every obstacle and trial, you brought your platoon through alive. If we look back upon these battlefields we have fought on for half this solar year, there are many platoons, companies, even entire regiments that did not survive. Killed to the last man, wiped out, reserved only for the annals of our planet’s history until it comes time to revive their regiments with new blood.”
Von Bracken placed a hand on Marsh’s shoulder. “Your leadership saved not only the lives of your platoon and the survivors of your regiment, but many thousands of others. Not just in the army which fought so valiantly but of the countless tens of thousands who will sleep soundly in Kasr Sonnen. We owe you a debt, Cross. It’s more than a schola, it’s more than a promotion, it’s more than all those medals. It’s time to don the carapace.”
“I…I am a Kasrkin?” Marsh Silas breathed.
“Yes, you bloody fool. A man honored by the Inquisition, the Astartes, by his homeworld? If I had any doubt before about transferring you over to my command, I have none now. Today, is your selection day.”
Marsh Silas lowered his head and smiled at his boots. Tears fell from his eyes and faded on the rockcrete pavement below him. Sniffing, he looked back up.
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Granted.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a Kasrkin. A man can do some great good there. I could not believe it when I was a Whiteshield and they allowed me to pass with Kasrkin Honors. But you and I once spoke of comradeship and brotherhood. Such facets are painful to give up.”
Marsh Silas stepped back and put his arm on Hyram’s back, and the other on Drummer Boy’s shoulder. “These fellows here, these men and women with me, they are my family. For years, we have been the first to spill blood and the first to shed it. To leave them after so long is not something I am prepared to do.”
Von Bracken raised his hand, nodding.
“I understand. You wish to remain with your men instead of accepting my offer.”
“Nay, sir,” Marsh Silas said. “If you believe me a specimen to be respected, then I make a request of you. I ask thee to look at these men with me. Look upon them and the others who survived this engagement and make them Kasrkin also. You speak of my leadership? My acts? I did not act alone. These soldiers, these men, fought harder than they ever had before. My accomplishment is due to them. What would I be without these people? I do not just lead, I serve them, just as they serve me. You are correct, it’s more than a schola, it’s more than promotions, it’s more than the medals. They have earned the right to rise up. They have all earned it, whether they were cited for the honors or not in their youth. If you wish to have me, then you must take us all. Not just Bloody Platoon, but Hyram, Ghent; everybody, for we all must go together.”
Von Bracken’s face was serious, almost sullen. But eventually, his face lifted with a smile. He laughed boisterously.
“What ambition you have, Cross.”
“Nay, not ambition: destiny.”
Von Bracken snorted, thought for a moment, and shrugged.
“Brotherhood. I was one to give it up. But who am I to force another man to do it? You will all do the 10th proud or die trying, understand me?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Bloody Platoon roared.
“And I have kept my word about the schola. I do not claim to understand every word of yours, but if Carstensen the Cadian saw fit to die for them, then surely, it is worthwhile.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank the Emperor,” was all von Bracken said before turning on his heel. Marsh Silas turned back around and regarded his friends. All were wide-eyed and glowing. They had to look at one another, as if to ensure they were not alone in a dream. His eyes settled on the specter of a long-lost friend, his long dark hair spilling over his shoulders. Barlocke’s projection lifted his wide-brimmed hat and placed it over his head. With one wink, smile, and resolute nod, Marsh’s heart soared.
“Let the Emperor hear your voices, men,” Marsh Silas said.
“Bloody Platoon!” They screamed. “Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon Bloody Platoon!”
But Marsh Silas did not join them. Instead, he gazed up at the sky as he gently clutched the Aquila token hanging around his neck. He squeezed it tightly and felt a great warmth in his palm. It seemed to pulsate, as if it were a beating heart. It was a great comfort to him, not just from the gentle radiance it emitted, but the familiarity. It was not just one heart, but one among many, many, many, all known to him. There was no difficulty in remembering their faces, seeing their handsome smiles, and hearing their wonderful, raucous laughter and their brave war cries, above all her’s. The sunlight touched his cheeks and the tears he shed shone like glittering gemstones.
“Do you hear them too, Lilias?” he whispered.
----------------------------------------
There was Foley, the assistant squad leader, and Logue, the tinkerer. Monty Peck, the platoon’s best singer, Fleming, a hard-nosed grenadier. Men like Jupp, Cuyper, Knaggs, Fletcher, Ledford, Olhouser the mortarman, Hitch the plasma gunner, Walcott the Field Chirurgeon, and Bullard the sharpshooter.
There were the squad leaders, Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, and Stainthrope. The new platoon sergeant, Walmsley Major, and his twin, whom everyone called Walmsley Minor. Among them were new arrivals, like Wulff the reenlisted auxiliary and the Whiteshields. Oh, what joyous soldierly youth: Clivvy, Graeme, Leander, Merton, Rayden, Rowley, Soames, Tattersall, Webley, and Yeardley.
Of course, there were many friends: Captain Giles, the wily ex-intelligence officer and his withdrawn aide, Eastoft. Valens, that regimental pict-capturer, and Commissar Ghent, who raised many of the men from youth. There were new friends too, like Afdin who had once taught rhetoric on a planet called Altridge. But who could forget the jubilant Drummer Boy? The stern medic, Honeycutt, the stalwart standard-bearer, Babcock? Or that mysterious Inquisitor, Barlocke, who was such a companion to them all. Then there was Seathan Hyram, Lilias Juventas Carstensen, whom they called Carstensen the Cadian, and Marsh Silas.
Not every man was named here. Of those that were, not all drew breath when the 1333rd Cadian Regiment was deactivated upon the ragged fields of Army’s Meadow. But no matter how many ascended the ramps of the Valkyries to join the 10th Kasrkin Regiment, and how many joined the Emperor’s celestial army, no matter their tribulations and trials, no matter their victories and defeats, no matter where their adventures brought them, together, they would forever always be:
THE BLOODY PLATOON