Training began immediately. From dawn to dusk, he had them working. He woke them up before roll call to take them on a run up and down the entire peninsula, always in full wargear. When they returned to the base, huffing and puffing under their combat loads, they were just in time for the roll. After the entire platoon stood-to in their trenchworks, they sat down for breakfast. Marsh afforded the newcomers only five minutes to scarf down their meals before putting them to work inside the barracks. He set them to the task of digging out the new area for their quarters. Yoxall and Stainthorpe, both combat engineers, supervised the construction despite their disinterest in the Whiteshields. The platoon sergeant led the fresh troopers in song as their Type 9-70 entrenchment tools scraped against the brown earth and rang a. In thirty minute shifts of five bodies each, they stood shoulder to shoulder and worked for five hours. By the time they were finished, they were stripped down to their undergarments and bare chests, their skin slick with sweat and covered in a layer of dirt.
When the allotted time was up, Marsh Silas gave them twenty minutes of rest and five minutes to clean up. Then it was time for another run in full wargear, this time making two laps of the entire peninsula from their trenchworks on the cliff, down through the base, out the gate, all the way to Mason Bridge, and back again. Again, they returned to the camp red in their faces and out of breath. From there, they went to the firing range where they practiced with various weapons from the basic M36 Kantrael pattern lasgun and their sidearms. After their time on the range was up, they practiced lobbing dummy grenades at targets dispersed at different distances.
Bayonet training was next on the list. Fixing up targets tied to posts, he instructed them on posture, poise, and aggressiveness, as well as the best spots and ways to strike. He took great delight in watching the young ones scream at the top of their lungs as they charged the cylindrical bags stuffed with various fibers. Many bore hundreds of marks from previous practice thrusts. The platoon sergeant worked with them individually at first, adjusting how they held their weapons, how to place their feet, and what kind of war face to wear to terrify their foes. Then, they worked as a group, performing mock bayonet charges at the targets.
Hand to hand combat training was next. Marsh wanted to draw on a number of volunteers from Bloody Platoon, although most were reluctant to lend their time. He was surprised when he was forced to order some of the Shock Troopers to help out. Those Guardsmen made it especially difficult for the Whiteshields as they knocked, tripped, grappled, and otherwise pummeled the young soldiers to the ground. Marsh merely observed and gave advice as best he could, but the Veterans provided few learning opportunities—much to his annoyance.
Once they finished their hand to hand combat drills, they rested for about half an hour and took their afternoon meal. Marsh Silas then conducted what he called, ‘letters lessons.’ Unsurprisingly, the Whiteshields were illiterate. Only Clivvy and Rowley knew how to read and write. Although he was still learning himself and he knew passing them off to Hyram would have expedited their lessons, he was determined to teach them himself. He did not start right away, taking several days to create a lesson plan—or curriculum, as Hyram insisted on calling it. Adopted from Hyram’s tutorship of the platoon sergeant, the lessons would begin with basic vocabulary and spelling lessons. From there, they would practice penmanship as they entertained more advanced terms and started composition. Still in the early stages, and struggling somewhat, the Whiteshields did their best. At first, Marsh wanted Hyram’s supervision, but after a few days, he was confident enough to teach on his own. Standing in front of the Whiteshields and lecturing was quite enjoyable!
Afterwards, it was back to the range. The shooting drills were only one aspect of it on this occasion. Bloody Platoon Veterans attempting to get some range time tended to distance themselves from the new blood even after Marsh’s encouragement.Weapons handling and maintenance were the key lessons from this round. This evolved into an inspection of all their wargear. He took the time to show them what components of their combat load were useless, from bulky pouches to poor whetstones. Marsh taught them all the ways a Shock Troops could modulate their kit; webbing, bandoleers, cartridge belts, pouches, grenades, scabbards, and sidearms all had their place. Staying quiet under a heavy load and keeping equipment clean on long marches were vital lessons he learned the hard way. For these new soldiers, they were going to enter combat with a new edge under his tutelage.
As the sun set, Marsh Silas ordered his trainees on a third run. This time, they would complete three laps up and down the peninsula. Upon completion, they would stage a footrace back to the top of the cliff. Also a participant, he kept pace with them until the end. Although they were all smaller and shorter than him, he knew he could easily beat them. But to bolster their confidence, he always allowed one of them to draw ahead. Yeardley won the race most of the time, winning the adulation of his comrades. The old salts of the platoon just watched with disdain. With their physical training concluded, the squad was allowed to join the evening mess. No one sat with them except for Marsh Silas.
During the meal and afterwards, as they settled in for the evening, he spoke to them of life in the Imperium. Marsh Silas spoke for hours about his dear friend Inquisitor Barlocke and all the lessons he passed on to him. He delighted in this time, getting to speak not as a soldier but as a man. To share ideas, realizations, and plans. ‘To change the Imperium, we must change also! But how? That is what we must figure out, young'uns. We cannot hope to become better men; we must create and foster that betterment ourselves. For the Emperor, for the Imperium, for ourselves.’ The Whiteshields sat enraptured and asked many questions, ones he was all too happy to answer.
He was not sure if they liked or hated him. Yet, as much as they groaned of soreness and moaned when Marsh roused them from their sleeping bags, they carried on ably and dutifully. Yeardley proved to be a fast learner, Rowley was quite intelligent, Clivvy was determined to set good examples, Tattersall proved to be an excellent marksman, Graeme was hardworking, Rayden was encouraging to the others, and all of them were highly motivated. No matter what kind of difficult training tasks he devised for them, they attacked it with zeal and vigor. When he spoke, they listened. He was beginning to see it, the shedding of their Whiteshield carapace. Marsh was sure they would shape into intelligent warriors, not just fierce ones.
One day, not quite two weeks later, Marsh Silas organized another work shift among his students to carve out the new chamber. Clivvy, as usual, volunteered. Yeardley, Rowley, Graeme, and Tattersall made up the rest. Each one wore their khaki fatigue trousers and black boots as well as a standard issue tank top. Marsh Silas, on the other hand, was shirtless as the heat of the underground barracks was already getting to him. His well-built upper body, rippling with well-defined muscle, was already covered in a sheen of sweat. An olive drab bandana was wrapped around his head, keeping his blonde locks from matting to his forehead.
“Come on now, Whiteshields,” he encouraged. “Hard work is good work, and good work is hard work.”
“Hard work is good work!” they chimed, their voices partially muffled by the bandannas they wore over their lower faces to keep out dust. “Good work is hard work!
Marsh spit into his hands and then rubbed some of the loose brown soil onto his palms. Standing on the left end of the work detail, all armed with pickaxes, he decided to sing. This was not one of the usual cadences Bloody Platoon used on a ruck march or run. Work songs were faster, repetitive, and required the men to tap out a beat or rhythm with their tools. These tunes were created by Guardsmen themselves rather than passed down from their instructors. Every regiment, every company, every platoon had their own songs. Some could be passed down, and some were lost, often with the units who created them.
He hefted his pickaxe and tapped the earth in front of them. “Take the sharp end and cut a scratch into the wall like so. Yes, that’s the way to do it. Now, tap into that cut with the edge like this,” Marsh demonstrated. The tapping increased in tempo. “Very good. Do so together on my mark…mark! Yes, that’s the way! Good show! Now, I shall sing a verse and then we’ll begin. Match my pace, now. Ready?”
“We’re ready, Marsh Silas!” the five Whiteshields of the first row declared. Despite Bloody Platoon’s reticence, the new arrivals already picked up their enthusiastic response. Marsh joined their quick tempo and soon there was a rhythmic scratching and tapping in the dirt. He inhaled and sang:
“Ohhhhh-woahhhh....ohhhhhh-whoa!
Ain’t been to Terra but I’ve been told,
the streets are gold
and the Emperor glows,
work on down-a line,
work on down-a line,
work on down a liiiiine!!”
Marsh swung his pickaxe and the others copied him. They dug rapidly into the wall, all the while he continued to repeat the final lines:
“Work on down-a line,
Work on down-a line,
Work on down-a liiiiine!”
Soon, Marsh and his five trainees disappeared into a cloud of brown dust. Clivvy, Yeardley, Rowley, Graeme, and Tattersall, picking up the lyrics, joined in quickly. Behind them, to keep up the beat, the other five began clapping out the rhythm. Broken soil fell at the diggers’ feet, piling up and up. The second team quit clapping and soon filled up sandbags with the soil which were then piled up outside. Cadians were practical people; nothing went to waste.
Despite such hard labor, Marsh felt the momentum in the air. He could keep going, and if he could, so could his Whiteshields. He didn’t even have to lead the song, they were merrily singing the tune themselves.
“Hey, stop shoving me!” Rayden yelled from behind them. Marsh and the others stopped swinging and turned around. Some of the Bloody Platoon Veterans had pulled Rayden from the chamber and were holding him against a wall.
“I don’t take no orders from the likes o’ you,” Logue snarled in the Whiteshield’s face.
“I was just asking for a little help.”
“You ain’t been around long enough to ask anything of me,” Bullard added. Just as Marsh was about to speak, Yeardley charged out.
“That’s enough!” he cried. But Jupp caught the lad, threw him against the wall, and by the straps of his vest, held him off the ground.
“Shut yer yap, child. You ought to learn your place.”
“I am no child! My name is Yeardley!”
“Nobody gives a shit what yer name is, kid!” Jupp snapped back. Marsh Silas stormed out, ripped Jupp’s hands away from the Whiteshield, and then pushed the other two Guardsmen away from Rayden.
“Call yerself Veterans!?” Marsh hollered. The three Shock Troopers backed away and stood stiffly. “I’ve never seen such a disgraceful act! You are soldiers, not bullies. How many times over the past weeks have I ordered you to lay off? You do not listen!” Hands on his hips, Marsh looked back at the dissatisfied Whiteshields, their purple, violet, indigo, and lavender eyes peering back from the dust. Taking a moment to think, he looked at his boots and nodded. “Right. You three, gather the platoon in the communal chamber in five minutes.”
“Yes, Senior Staff Sergeant,” the trio replied gravely. As they tramped down the tunnel, Marsh turned back around. The Whiteshields were gazing at one another. Yeardley, eventually, stood back up.
“Sir, you don’t have to punish them. We understand why they act in such o’ manner.”
“It doesn’t matter if ya understand. What matters is that they don’t understand what myself and Hyram are attempting to do here. I will correct this. You lot, continue the detail. Clivvy, I leave this in your hands for now. No slacking.”
“Yes, sir!”
With cleaning or donning a shirt, Marsh Silas marched down the hallway. His hands were clenched into fists and his head was done as if he were about to charge into someone. Arriving in the communal chamber, he found all the enlisted men present. Some smoked, others drank water, and a few were even breaking out a deck of cards. He snatched this packet from their hands and slammed it on the table.
“Alright Bloody Platoon, listen up. Your behavior towards the Whiteshields has been despicable. You do not aid in their training despite my requests and is only because of my respect for you all and the less-than-normal circumstances I have put these young troopers in that I have not made said requests orders.”
He turned as he spoke, looking every man in the eye. “I am trying to save their lives. Out here, with us, with the dangers we face? They will not survive. Go out, look at the camp, see what the other Whiteshields do. Petty and cruel work details, ignored by their superiors, looking for something to do. No one cares for them and without guidance, they will die pointlessly, aimlessly, unmourned and unknown. Their deaths will be needless and unsoldierly. What’s say you?”
“Marsh Silas, they don’t know shit,” Queshire finally said, leaning against a beam. “Even if you teach’em how we do things, they’re fresh and untested. They’re gonna die, anyway.”
“That’s why no one wants to know their names. Nobody’s looking for new friends,” Mottershead added. “Why go through the trouble if they won’t make it?”
“Lots of us came up in the 540th Youth Regiment together,” Yoxall said. “You, me, the Walmsley’s, more in this platoon, we’ve known each other since we were children. Even when new fellows joined up, they had years of experience in other regiments. We could rely on them. Whiteshields do fine in their own units, but when they’re tasked to us, they never make it. Remember when 3rd Company got some Whiteshields five years back? One hundred percent casualties on their first engagement.”
“Because no one took the time to train them. They looked upon the Whiteshields and saw corpses. They gave up on someone before they even tried.” Marsh turned and turned as he spoke. “What kind of soldier gives up before the action has begun? Do you think Cadia, the bulwark of the entire Imperium, would stand fast against the hordes of the Archenemy and produce some of the finest fighting men and women of the age if we were the kind to cave in from doubt and hesitancy?” No one responded. Eyes fell, feet slid, shoulders sagged. “Well!?”
“No, sir.”
“I can’t hear you!”
“No, sir!”
“I beg you, think of yourselves as Whiteshields. We were in our own regiments, yet there were Veterans among us then who did little to help us. After those first firefights, when our perceptions of what war was like were shattered, were they there to guide us? Nay, we had only each other. We learned to survive on our own. You treat these Whiteshields as if they’re already dead. It is more than doubt—you have no hope. Do you know what I learned at Kasr Fortis, when we were all divided among the ruins, when the chance of success was so low, when the very idea of survival seemed impossible? A man must create hope. He must act and become the very hope he seeks, for himself and his comrades. That is more than soldiering, that is what it means to be human. To not only carry on when all appears hopeless, but to be that hope very hope.”
Marsh wiped his sweaty brow, peeling away some of his dirty, slick blonde locks. The Guardsmen around him avoided his gaze. “No more abuse. No more hazing. Treat them with respect. I ask you to reach within yourselves and empathize with these young ones. You have it in your power to make a difference in their lives. Or are you no longer the men who once struggled against heretics and rogues to save helpless children? Think on that for a while. I’ve said my piece, piss off and carry on.”
***
Marsh Silas sat in the parapet's OP with the Whiteshields. All had washed down after their long, grimey day of digging. Even the platoon sergeant was clad in fresh fatigues. Late afternoon sunlight sparkled along the waves of the basin. In the steadily receding aura, the industrial working lights strung throughout the buildings and cranes at Kasr Fortis glittered. A chilly breeze blew through the trenches.
Seated on a crate, Marsh gathered the Whiteshields around him in a semicircle. Some were on their knees while others sat on the seat of their pants. As he prepared his pipe, Marsh Silas decided it was as good a time as any to begin his lecture.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Attempting to bring about change is a curious and challenging idea. My dearest friend, Barlocke, often told me he would show me the way. Oh, how often I heard him utter such assurances. Many times, it was rather bothersome, for he would say as much but never really show me. Some acts would occur—a battle, a new face in the regiment, the obtuse absurdities of some other person—and from those he would finally teach his lessons.”
Graeme raised his hand. Marsh gestured at him with his pipe.
“What does obtuse mean?”
“Difficult, unreasonable.” Graeme nodded sheepishly. “No shame, there are still many words I do not quite understand or know.”
Yeardley raised his hand shyly and sat up a little further. Marsh nodded at him.
“You seem far more direct in your teachings than the man who tutored you, sir.”
“That’s because I am a mere soldier who was not half as smart as an Inquisitor,” Marsh chuckled. “He was very wise. Once, he said to me that he spent most of his life studying. Studying what? Why, everything! The man consumed knowledge. See, that’s why I realized learning to read from the Lieutenant would help me become wise and strong like Barlocke. Literacy is very important, Whiteshields, for it opens up opportunities to learn. Gather knowledge, and pass it on.”
Yeardley looked around at the other Whiteshields. Most of them were listening attentively. Once more, he raised his hand and Marsh nodded.
“Sir, how do you know when you’ve got plenty o’ knowledge? How do you know when you’re wise enough?”
Marsh Silas smiled tenderly at the young man. He took his pipe from his lips, clutched it with both hands, and leaned forward in a fatherly manner.
“My boy, in the time since Barlocke was lost, I’ve often wondered that myself. When will I be ready? There ain’t no graduation ceremony like when I entered the Youth Regiments or passed onto the Shock Troops. I’ve been puzzling and puzzling, jus’ trying to figure it all out. I did not realize the answer until I started tutoring you.”
The confused Whiteshields gazed at one another quickly. Marsh got off the crate and knelt in front of them. “Hear me, young’uns. You ain’t ever wise enough. There is always more to learn. No matter the accumulated knowledge, there is always more to do and discover.”
“But, you are our trainer,” Soames said inquisitively. “If you can pass on knowledge to us, then you must know enough.”
“I would like to think as much, but it ain’t true. To be a teacher, you must be a learner. Learning never ends, even after you take up the mantle I currently and very humbly veil myself with. To come to terms with such an idea, to foster it all on my own, that’s what it means to better oneself and change for the good of the Imperium. Barlocke taught me how to help myself and that is what this has all been.”
I knew you had it in you to be a scholar, Silvanus. My, you are so unlike the man I met upon Army’s Meadow all those days ago. You are without a doubt the most curious and brilliant of my pupils. Marsh smiled upon feeling this warmth spread within his skull. It expanded further into his scalp and face. He closed his eyes and for a moment it felt as though his friend’s hands were clutching his cheeks. The memories of those occasions stirred and that melancholy was chased away by the sweetness of it all.
“Marsh Silas?” Webley asked. The platoon sergeant opened his eyes. The Whiteshields were gazing at him curiously. “Are you well, sir?”
“Quite so..”
“You have tears in your eyes.”
Marsh Silas reached up with his fingers. His eyelashes were damp. He chuckled and wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve.
“Apologies. Sometimes, when I think of my old friend, I remember very beautiful moments. I never allowed myself to feel this way before, to indulge in the memories long past of times both pleasant and frightening. Barlocke helped me see the past, reconcile some of it even, and now I let my mind wander. Ah, that wandering, it leads my heart to places I never thought of.”
“I don’t understand,” Tattersall murmured. “What does it mean for the heart to go someplace?”
“Hark back to times of your childhood. I grew up in Kasr Polaris, and when the tide receded—”
“You went out to collect seaweed!” exclaimed Yeardly. “Sir, I’m from Polaris as well!”
“Throne!” Marsh Silas slapped his knee. “The Emperor saw fit to unite us, then! Is that not a miracle of miracles, as Lieutenant Hyram oft says?” He calmed down and cleared his throat. “But do as Yeardley does, call back on these memories. Are they not beautiful and sweet? Do they not stir you? Has the iron your Commissars and instructors hammered into you momentarily softened?”
The Whiteshields took their time to respond. Their perplexed expressions of quirked eyebrows and pursed lips changed. Eyes widened and grew glossy or misty. A faraway gaze, a little smile, a softening of the brow. Marsh Silas sat back on the crate and grinned as the young men and women before him transported themselves back to times warm and sweet. From the glimmer of their eyes, he knew they had never been encouraged to do so. For years, consumed by disciplined and rigorous training, they had learned to forget their own capacities. With just a little encouragement, they rediscovered it.
Yes, Silvanus. Mankind has forgotten the Emperor’s gifts. To love, to remember, to cherish, to strive. This is the difference the Imperium requires. This is the way. You will show them.
Eventually, the Whiteshields returned from their thoughts. Eyes blinked and the smiles faded. Clivvy raised her hand and Marsh pointed at her. She stood up to speak.
“Sir, you say that it is important for us to better ourselves. To change. The Inquisitor, did he make you change?”
“Make me? Nay. He challenged me, tested me, but it was never forced. I imagine if I told him to stop, he very well would have.”
“That is not exactly what I mean, sir. He was the one who changed you?”
“Ah, that’s an interesting question, young Sergeant.” Marsh Silas puffed on his pipe for a few moments, his eyes half-closed as he thought. “No. I changed myself.”
“But he was the one who taught you and opened you up to those things?”
“Yes. It was a kind of rediscovery. A rekindling of the power the Emperor imbued us with. The freedom within us that lets us choose how we serve Him and the Imperium. He helped me help myself—he said that to me once. He was right. Now, I aim to do the same. I shall help you help yourselves. But it is all up to you to figure out how to change and aid the Imperium.”
The Whiteshields’ gazes detached somewhat, not from disinterest but in wonder. They seemed to puzzle and ponder. To see their minds at work, their eyes falling as their thoughts deepended, made Marsh Silas smile. It felt good—it felt right. Within him, Barlocke did not speak, but he chuckled with delight. Such a charming vibration and pleasing warmth was enough to tilt his head back and usher contented sleep.
“Senior Staff Sergeant?”
Marsh looked past the Whiteshields. Junior Commissar Carstensen was standing outside the OP. The Whiteshields, roused, looked over their shoulders and scrambled to attention. Carstensen walked by them and approached Marsh Silas. “May we speak a while?”
“Of course, Junior Commissar. Whiteshields, you may enjoy respite for the remainder of the evening after another run. Sergeant Clivvy, I trust you with the detail.”
“Yes, sir! Squad, with me!”
They hurriedly jogged out in a single file line. Once they were out of the trench and back in the barracks to collect their wargear, Carstensen came close. Marsh Silas smiled at her. “Lilias,” he greeted.
“Silas, hello. Walk with me, if you please.”
The pair trundled out of the trenches and down the slope from the cliffside trench. As they walked by other trenches, Marsh watched the other Whiteshields. Shock Troopers idled, smoked, and chatted while their charges carried sandbags or heavy crates. There was no direction or supervision. Upon each of their youthful faces was an expression of disdain, boredom, and regret. Not a single head was raised with pride. To see such eager and devoted aspiring soldiers so lusterless was enough to make his heart ache.
As they strutted across the main compound, Carstensen took his pipe. “I overheard your lecturing of the platoon earlier today. You do know those men do not want to make any friends for they do not wish to bear the pain of fallen comrades?”
“Aye, I know it. A solar year ago, I imagine I would have acted much the same,” Marsh tiredly said. “But Bloody Platoon are Guardsmen of daring! Look at our exploits and you will see brave Cadians, one and all. Yet they do not dare to welcome, they do not dare to inspire, they do not dare to inspire to love their fellow man.”
“It is challenging to make such attempts.”
“Begging your pardon, Lilias, methinks it is only difficult because they do not attempt. To be the man I am now, someone who is growing, it took me very long to pluck up courage to follow my teacher’s example. I was afraid and reluctant despite all that I saw to the contrary of the safety I inhabited. But the hardest part was not trying, it was my refusal to try at all. I do not just help these Whiteshields with what I do, I now seek to teach Bloody Platoon this lesson also.”
Carstensen handed him back the pipe. Her stern face was difficult to read. Marsh braced himself for a reprimand.
“I wish to involve myself with the training of the Whiteshields.”
“Am I doing poorly?”
“No, I don’t mean to infer such an idea,” Carstensen said hastily. “I wish to merely play a role. A Commissar’s duty is to maintain discipline, loyalty, and faithfulness among troops. But, I wish to do more.”
As they strode through the gate, Marsh Silas felt a sense of dread within him. He trusted, admired, and respected Carstensen more than any other Commissariat officer he’d ever encountered. She was courageous, inspiring, and cared for the men around her more than that was required of her station. Some Commissars would disapprove of her camaraderie with the men but Bloody Platoon cherished her resilience and respected her record. Her acceptance as just another one of the soldiers did not diminish the gravitas they afforded to her station, although she was quite humble about it, too.
But Marsh Silas had not seen her interact with Whiteshields. Would her character change in a teaching role instead of a supervisory one? If they made mistakes, if they were too boisterous, did she have the potential to be too severe? Some acts merited punishment but Marsh did not want such extreme punishments for minor infractions to spurn these aspiring students. Carstensen was not harsh in her dispense of corrective action among Bloody Platoon, but the evidence was slim, for the Veteran platoon had few faults.
Striding between the yellow flower frields, Marsh shrugged sheepishly and smiled. Carstensen quirked an eyebrow at his meek expression.
“Lilias, while I am certainly grateful for your offer, methinks it would be unnecessary.”
Her brow furrowed and, as she scowled, the scar adjacent to her mouth seemed especially grisly.
“How can further aid be unnecessary?”
“I just worry the Whiteshields may not respond well to your steel.”
Carstensen stopped. Marsh turned around. The Junior Commissar had balled her hands into fists by her sides. Her head was so low the bill of her high-peaked cap covered her eyes. I think you’ve upset her, friend. ‘Don’t I know it,’ Marsh thought.
“You think I’m going to beat them.”
“N-no!”
“Yes, you do. You think I’m going to hurt them, berate them, perhaps shoot them.”
“No, Lilias!”
“We have fought together for over a year now. You know who I am. Have I not proved I’m not quick to draw my sidearm? That I refuse to take up the lash against a man who was a moment too late to formation? Are you blind to the dreams of others?”
At this, Marsh’s concern faded. His eyes widened as Carstensen walked up to him and took off her hat. Southerly winds drifted across the pair, casting her orange locks across her face. From behind them, her radiant teal gaze bore into him. “You are not the only one with dreams, Silas, or plans for change. I wish to become a full Commissar one day and rise even higher, as you wish to as an officer. Not for accolades or glory, but so that I might make a change for the Imperium.”
Carstensen strode to the side of the road. The flowers and grass came up to her waist. She extended one hand out to them and grazed the petals with her fingertips. “For every Commissar who seeks to fight alongside their men and set examples, there are scores who are pitiless, cruel, and tyrannical. They rely on fear and oppression, claiming it as the Emperor’s will. Yet, the God-Emperor freed humanity from the clutches of xenos and brutal masters. He is the greatest of liberators, the Scourge of Oppression. We should not indulge in that which He sought to destroy!”
She clutched her hat with both hands and turned it around several times. When she stopped, the emblem above the bill—a silver winged skulled—looked back up at her. Determinedly, she gritted her teeth, scrunched up her pugilist’s nose, and donned the hat. As her dark coat swayed around her ankles, she turned back to Marsh Silas.
“I will end the brutality. I will show the Officio Prefectus and the Astra Militarum both: Commissars need not enact petty cruelties and barbarism. Commissars and officers alike will become examples, inspirations one and all, who rally the Guardsmen when their courage wanes, not punish them. No more shall Commissars be dealers of death for those who are afraid or struggling. They will be bastions and bulwarks reservoirs of courage, discipline, and brotherhood. All I ask, Silas, is that I may start somewhere small as well, as you have decided. These Whiteshields, these children, they are the place I can begin.”
Marsh Silas stared back at her, his uncovered blonde locks flowing with the wind. His violet gaze, so often piercing and sharp, softened. The crooked smile which spread was especially contented and sweet. He was not quite aware of his smile, but Carstensen must have been, for her hard gaze also lost its edge. He walked towards her and held out his hand.
“It is the place we begin, Lilias,” he said. Carstensen’s eyes glittered as she reached forward. Instead of shaking his hand, she slid her fingers between his own. They stood that way in the middle of the road for some time, gazing into one another, their hands locked.
Rumbling engines behind them caught their attention. A resupply convoy of Trojan APCs crossed Mason Bridge on their way to the camp. Marsh thought they would merely drop their hands and step aside. But Carstensen suddenly pulled him into the fields and led him towards the beach. Despite his surprise, he followed right behind her. Carstensen’s grip around his hand was tight.
By the time the convoy drove by, they had slid onto the sandy beach and sat by a dune out of sight of both the road and the camp. Knees to their chests and shoulder to shoulder, the pair sat there for some time. Waning sunlight continued to reflect brilliantly upon the darkening waters. Waves lapped the shore, casting white spray and foam into the air. Beach grass and flowers danced in the breeze. It was as if Cadia were happy at their coming—delighted with their agreement.
Marsh Silas puffed on his pipe and gave it to her. Carstensen, seemingly lost in her thoughts, smoked it idly. But then she wrapped her lips around the neck, drew a deep breath, leaned back, and blew a smoke ring. It did not last for long, for the wind swept it hurriedly away. She was not deterred and kept blowing more rings. The platoon sergeant, contented, leaned back against the dune and watched her.
“So, what should we do to help these Whiteshields along their path?”
“You are doing very well to drill them and keep them disciplined. I plan to conduct lectures of my own; leadership, supporting and working with officers and other officials. But they need more practical experience. We should conduct small unit exercises in these fields. Fire and maneuver, fireteams, concealment, cover, everything they will need in combat,” Carstensen replied stiffly.
“Aye, I see yer wisdom. We shall start on the morrow.” Carstensen didn’t reply to him. “I hurt your feelings some when I made my assumptions, did I not?” Carstensen sneaked a glance at him from the corner of her eye, but then her gaze flitted forwards once more. She raised her chin respectfully.
“Officers oughtn’t be affected by mere words, no matter how deep or trivial the slight. They have higher purposes to the Emperor and the men and women around them.”
“Yup,” Marsh said with an embarrassed chuckle. “I hurt yer feelings.”
“Very much so,” Carstensen replied quietly.
“I do apologize. I was just thinkin’ of those kids.”
“I think of these Whiteshields too; it is part of why I ask to partake in their tutelage.”
“Do you forgive me?”
Carstensen held up his pipe. Marsh opened his mouth and she placed the neck upon his bottom lip. He closed his lips around it.
“Your opinion of me…means very much to me, Silas.”
“As does yours of me,” Marsh said quietly. He thought for a moment, then smiled. “These dreams we have, well, I don’t suppose it’d be too hard to share them with one another? Instead o’ calling them dreams, why not just make it one dream? Our dream of change.”
“Eventually, I believe we can make it one dream,” Carstensen replied eventually. Marsh bristled as she rested her head on his shoulder as they sat beneath the dune. “For now, let us consider this the start.”