The Whiteshields’ test came the next night, right after they finished digging their new quarters in the barracks. Quietly, they exited the camp with Marsh Silas, Hyram, Ghent, and Carstensen in a supervisory capacity. Isaev was not in attendance, as the team’s goal was first to show Hyram and Ghent how capable the rookies were before conducting another evaluation for regimental command.
Keeping to the right side of the road, the staggered column of ten Whiteshields crept their way down the cape. Compared to the previous night, they were far more professional and strict. Soames kept pace and when he communicated with hand signals, he was quick and focused. Graeme, overnight, had improved with his own skills and Yeardley did not use the signals for comedy. Rowley, bringing up the rearguard, was not shaking, either. Their formation was tighter, their pace quicker, and their determination to reach the bridge was quite apparent.
Marsh Silas grinned excitedly, eager for Ghent to witness this successful exercise. Beside him, Carstensen watched him warily while Hyram studiously took notes on his Data-slate.
“They move well,” the Lieutenant whispered to Marsh. “Alert, focused, covering their sections, very good. You said they’ve only had one dry run, though. Are you sure they’re ready for the simulated ambush?”
“Between all the training we’ve run them through, their discipline is iron,” Marsh assured him. “I believe in their resolve.”
“Steel bends; iron breaks. They have not had anyone act against them before. They might be used to live rounds flying above their heads but they are unaccustomed to an uncontrolled environment,” Hyram insisted. “Like a torrent of cold water against a frail man or a surplus of food for a starving soul, the shock is enough to kill them.”
“How can food kill a hungry fellow?” Marsh asked, confused.
“What I’m trying to say is that they’re not used to shocks. A surprise, a heavy blow—the impact against their morale might be too great.”
“We shall see,” Marsh confidently said. He then tapped his friend on the shoulder. “After tonight, we’ll get the long-range sweep you’ve been pressing for. Thanks for getting the men to participate in this. I think helping out will do them some good.”
“I agree they must act as a more cohesive unit. I tire of the ignorance so many of our comrades pay towards the Whiteshields in this regiment. What you’re doing will set a precedent.”
“Precedent…a deed which will then create a standard for further acts to follow,” Marsh articulated. Hyram smiled and clapped Marsh Silas on the back.
“Splendid, I knew you would take to your letters quickly.”
“Aye, like these Whiteshields will take to war right-quick.” Marsh Silas checked his wrist-chrono as Carstensen double-backed from the squad. The platoon sergeant monitored the countdown to the stroke of midnight. Suddenly, several figures popped out of the flowers on either side of the road. Some were armed with 9-70 entrenchment tools, others with bayonets, and a few with M36 lasguns loaded with simulation mags. They issued a war cry and assaulted the Whiteshields.
“Hold your ground and take cover!” Clivvy shouted, falling to one knee and firing her own fake ammunition. Instead of firing lasbolts, the barrel merely flickered and emitted harmless beams which highlighted the target. Webley, Tattersall, and Rayden all crouched and fired at the incoming assailants. Some fell, but more rose from the flowers and harassed them on their flanks. Suddenly, Merton, Soames, and Leander stood up and counter-charged. “Hold your ground and stay down! Halt! Wait, damn you!” Clivvy shouted, trying to stop the frenzied troopers.
Immediately, the three Whiteshields were tackled by the larger opponents. In a series of flurried grapples and pins, the trio were dispatched. Having left a gap in the center of their squad, the attackers pierced the position and enveloped both sections of the surviving squad. “To me!” Clivvy shouted. Yeardley, Graeme, and Rowley attempted to rejoin but they were cut off. Graeme, despite his small stature, was able to disarm a charger before tripping him. Yeardley, unfortunately, was locked in a grapple with an assailant. Rowley, who had been firing madly, suddenly trembled, turned, and ran.
Marsh’s heart sank as Hyram blew his whistle. Immediately, the action ceased and the shadowy attackers turned on their helmet-mounted lights. Dozens of Bloody Platoon members showed themselves, their faces blacked and their armor mottled for the simulation. The Lieutenant stormed forward.
“What the fuck do you think this is, Rowley!?” he shouted at the quivering Whiteshield. He snatched her by the collar of her Flak Armor chestpiece and throttled her. “You do not run while your comrades are in need! You do not retreat from a foe you are capable of overcoming nor disobey orders to rejoin!”
“Sir, I was, I just, I—” Hyram let go and slapped Rowley. The Whiteshield gasped and recoiled into Yeardley. She held her cheek and tears welled up in her eyes. Her friend checked her briefly before stepping forward.
“Sir, Rowley made a mistake, but she was just—”
Hyram shoved Yeardly on the ground and grabbed him by the chinstrap of his helmet.
“I do not care how scared or confused she was. Or any of you, for that matter! That was a damned despicable display of soldiering. Not even half of you performed well. Three of you launched a poorly executed bayonet charge because you were flustered, you failed to fill the gap between the sections of your squad, and you!” He whirled and pointed at Rowley again. “You ran away like a gutless coward! Are you not Cadians!? Line up, right now!”
Marsh Silas covered the lower part of his face as the Whiteshields formed ranks along the road. Bloody Platoon gathered up on the opposite side. Hyram deliberately walked up and down the line, menacing each of the Whiteshields with his burning, violet gaze. “You cannot fuck this up. Here, you’ll get a knock or two to your skull. Out there,” he pointed at Mason Bridge, “you get killed. This is not a game, this is not a place for mistakes. Act like Guardsmen. Now, get out of my sight.”
The Whiteshields shuffled away sadly. Bloody Platoon watched them go before following. Carstensen cast a glance towards Marsh Silas before joining them. Only Marsh, Hyram, and Ghent remained. The Lieutenant marched over to him and folded his arms across his chest. In turn, the platoon sergeant planted his hands on his hips and met his gaze.
“Is that how you treat your son?” Marsh asked coldly.
“I never placed my hand upon my son in such a manner,” Hyram responded rigidly. “But these are not my children and neither are they yours. You have treated them in such a manner for too long. Too much of their training has become a game. I know you were letting them win the races when they had no business succeeding. Do not forget who you are.” Hyram ran his hand over his face and looked up at the sky. “Throne, I know how much Barlocke meant to you. He had dreams. You have them as well. Carstensen, myself, we want to help this Imperium achieve greatness, too. Of course, I want to do away with the malpractices we witness day after day. But you are not Barlocke. You are Marsh Silas. Those kids, they’re supposed to be soldiers, and they need a soldier to guide them, not a father.”
“I am trying to do something better for them,” Marsh whispered.
“But you cannot give it to them. You believe in earning everything. You have attempted to extend that to them. Do not falter now when we draw so close to the war to come.”
Hyram spun on his heel and marched back to camp. Marsh Silas lingered on the road and turned cautiously towards Ghent. The Commissar stared at him hard.
“I taught you better than this,” he said. “If you are going to teach them, teach them properly. Otherwise, none of them will survive.”
Nearly a decade of brutal training and harsh punishments flooded back with those words. Marsh’s eyes fell to his boots as Ghent left. He wanted to follow, but instead his legs carried him down to the beach. It was near the little nook by the grassy dune where he and Carstensen sat some days ago. Standing nearby, his feet not far from the dark water sliding up the beach, he took out his pipe.
Before he lit it, the inside of his skull vibrated slightly and it felt very warm. Would you like to talk about it?
“I ain’t so sure,” Marsh grumbled. “I doubt it’ll do any good to just talk to the voice in my head.” Well, will you permit me to try something? I have been gathering my strength and pooling my faint connection to the Warp for power. “What is it?” I do not wish to spoil the surprise. Please? “Very well,” Marsh grumbled. Close your eyes.
Shaking his head, Marsh nonetheless obeyed. He waited, waited, and waited, the wind biting at his cheeks. Cold water washed over the tips of his boots. Eventually, he heard footfalls in the sand.
“Hello, Silvanus,” said a familiar voice.
Marsh Silas’s eyes shot open and he turned to his left. Barlocke the Inquisitor stood over him, clad in the black trench coat, olive sweater, and dark trousers he used to wear. His silver, lightweight cuirass was all that was missing. On each hip was a holster; the one on the left was empty. Marsh flung himself into the Inquisitor and the two friends embraced. Laughing and swaying from side to side, they clung to one another. When they finally parted, still grasping one another’s arms, joyous tears slid down Marsh’s cheeks.
“How can this be?” Marsh murmured. “You disappeared, not a trace was found o’ you!”
“Old friend, it is not so,” Barlocke said. They went over to the dune and sat down. The Inquisitor took off his wide-brimmed cap and ran his fingers through his long, dark hair. “When I fused part of my being with yours, some of my residual power came with it. It ebbs and flows, sometimes growing, sometimes waning, for I am but a mere fragment now and I cannot tap into the energy I once did.” But he smiled confidently. “By the Emperor of Man, I am still strong, even if I’m just a mere fragment of my mortal self.”
“So, you ain’t really here?” Marsh asked. Before the Inquisitor answered, he reached out and clasped his shoulder. He felt the soft leather of Barlocke’s coat and the strength of the muscle underneath. Slowly, he withdrew his trembling hand. “You certainly seem like you’re here.”
“A convincing trick,” Barlocke said modestly. As disappointed as he was, Marsh managed to smile.
“It is good to see you once more.”
“And you as well,” Barlocke said, leaning back and propping himself up on his arms. “How I miss walking through these fields. It was like a private garden, away from all the trenches and foreboding kasr walls. What a chance that crushing a heretical cult would lead us to a place of beauty.”
Marsh Silas nodded in agreement before looking back out to sea. The night was partly cloudy. Intermittent rays of moonlight danced along the black water, denoted only by rising and falling white crests.
“I thought the Whiteshields would do well,” Marsh admitted. “I made a mistake.”
“But you are trying to act better with them. Others would ignore them, others would brutalize them. You have done neither: that is a victory.”
“But we ain’t accomplished anything,” Marsh said. “They won’t survive if all I do is delight them with stories and races. We must drill this again and again, and make it hard.”
“Such regression will be detrimental to their progress, Silvanus.”
“Carstensen wants to go pretty hard on them, you want me to show them the way,” Marsh said. He looked up, his violet gaze determined and thoughtful. “If we lived a perfect life, then there would be no need for us to be tough on folks. I want those kids to survive, I want them to live better lives than me, and I want to continue this work we’ve spoken of. But this life ain’t easy.” Marsh lit his pipe and started to nod. “It can’t be just your way, nor can it be just Carstensen’s way. There must be something in between. I must create balance.”
“That will be a slow affair, Silvanus, and by no means safer.”
“I think change has a way of incurring risks no matter what,” Marsh said, puffing on his pipe. “If I can build them up, teach them, and inspire them to dream but make them stronger and harder to face life's challenges, then that’ll be the real progress. Perhaps, by practicing both, one will lead to the other. The Imperium cannot just turn around and become anew, it must build itself upon the foundation it currently resides, not clear it away entirely. Nor can these kids become warriors without plain, dirty, hardship.”
He looked over at Barlocke. The projection’s long hair flowed with the wind. His smile was curious and happy.
“Very well, Silvanus. I trust you. Do what you believe is right” Barlocke touched Marsh’s cheek before fading away. Marsh Silas blinked at the sudden emptiness beside him, then smiled softly at his boots. I pray we can speak like this again, Silvanus. I will rest for now and gather my strength, focus it, hone it, and improve upon it. I promise.
“Thank you, old friend,” Marsh whispered.
“Silas?”
Marsh stood up hastily as Carstensen loped over to him. She looked at him quizzically. “Are you well? I heard you speaking to someone.”
“Just mumbling to myself,” Marsh said. “I just came here to think and smoke.”
Carstensen sat beside him and smiled tenderly.
“Smoke away.”
Marsh Silas put his arm around her and she leaned into him. They stared at the rays of moonlight dazzling the water. The platoon sergeant shifted his pipe to the corner of his mouth and nodded.
“Tomorrow, we’re going to have a long talk with those Whiteshields.”
***
“Subject for today!” Marsh Silas chimed the next day. The Whiteshields sat glumly outside the communication trenches of the cliff. Although their eyes remained fixed on the platoon sergeant, the usual luster was absent. Nearby, onlookers from Bloody Platoon watched them silently. Carstensen, standing right next to Marsh, studied him with confused apprehension.
Undeterred, Marsh held up an entrenchment tool. “Can any o’ you tell me what this instrument is?” Their faces fell, their mouths twisted in unamused smiles, and some bounced their eyebrows upwards as if they thought their erstwhile teacher had taken leave of his senses. Marsh lowered it as if he believed they couldn’t see it and swept it slowly from left to right. “Come on now!”
Rayden held up his hand slowly. “Yes?”
“It’s...it’s a shovel,” he said gingerly.
“You’ll be taking an extra lap up and down Army’s Meadow, son, because you are incorrect.” Rayden groaned and his head dropped. Beaming smugly, Marsh displayed the tool again. “Another guess, if you please!”
Confused, the Whiteshields exchanged a series of glances and spoke in low tones with one another. Once again, Marsh was glad they were working as a team to solve a problem, even if that problem could barely be described as a riddle. He waited eagerly for them to answer. When they finally did, Clivvy raised her hand. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“Sir, it’s an entrenchment tool, sir,” she answered proudly. Clivvy smiled wide and folded her arms across her chest, nodding.
“Do you know what Whiteshields earn for providing half-answers? An extra lap up and down Army’s Meadow! We shall progress only if you state its full name!” Clivvy’s eyes popped and her mouth dropped, aghast that she hadn’t succeeded. Leander and Tattersall each patted her on the back. Again, they erupted into whispers and leaned into one another. Some debated that Marsh Silas was throwing them for a loop and they should stick to their answers. Others discussed there was no use for stating the full title of the tool as nobody referred to it as such. A few were keen to play the platoon sergeant’s little game. Finally, it was Yeardley who raised his hand.
“Sir, what you be holdin’ in your hands is the Type 9-70 Entrenchment Tool, sir.”
“The young man from Polaris is quite correct. You earn yourself another ration of choco-paste at supper.” Yeardley cheered and clapped his hands together. The others groaned but were swift to congratulate their friend. Again, their camaraderie pleased Marsh Silas. “This is one of the most useful tools in a Shock Trooper’s arsenal. It is excellent for digging fighting holes, trenches, and as we’ve learned, for scraping the refuse of tunnelworks projects. With it you can fill sandbags, conceal mines, and cut false paths onto trails. As well, the bottom of the spade is very sturdy so you can use it as a hammer for numerous tasks. Here, you see the tip is thin and pointed. You might think this makes it weak and prone to bending. Don’t be fooled! Not only is it good for breaking into earth, you can pry open doors and hatches with it!”
Marsh flipped the weapon around and then ran his hand down the right side of the spade portion. “You’ll notice here, young ones, that this side has been sharpened. Now, this makes it the best side to dump soil out of especially if you’re filling sandbags. But this also turns the 9-70 into a powerful weapon.” He pointed at Rowley. “On your feet, if ya please.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Rowley jumped up and rushed over to Marsh Silas, keeping her chin raised. Tugging her beside him, he turned her again to face him. “When you strike with the 9-70, do so with this sharpened edge and bring it here, at the base of the neck.”
Unwilling to frighten the poor girl, he merely lowered and held it over the indicated spot. “You will cut through flesh and break bone, separating the shoulder. Or, if you’re pressed for time like so many o’ us are under combat conditions, use the sturdy underside and make a great blow to the top of their head or their face.” Again, he made a mock swing that was very slow and deliberate. Rowley still flinched when the bottom nearly touched her nose. “Cultists and heretics are maddened, filthy creatures. Many times I’ve seen them discard their weapons just so they can rip you to pieces with their bare hands. They make great lunges at you; if they do so, cause a blow like this.”
Marsh took a step back, leveled the 9-70 so the flat of the spade was angled just under Rowley’s jaw. Putting his palm on top of the handle, he thrust it forward but stopped short. “That is a blow the enemy shall never recover from. You’ll probably take their head off with it. Sit down.”
The platoon sergeant flexed with the 9-70 and then laid it across his shoulder. He flashed his pupils a big smile. “Now, you might be wonderin’ about sumthin’. ‘Marsh Silas,’ you be sayin’, ‘why you be showin’ us how a damned old shovel works for killing when we have lasguns and grenades and trench knives?’ Because, my dear Whiteshields, this is an effective tool and weapon with many uses. The versatility of it is something that should never be undervalued by soldiers like yourselves. You may lose your knife, your bayonet might break, and Emperor forbid, your M36 charge packs could run dry. When it comes to that, this is something you may always rely upon. Understood?”
“Yes, Marsh Silas!”
“Very good!” He went to the crate behind him, popped the lid, and kicked it over. A dozen 9-70s tumbled out. Marsh Silas glared down at the detail and pointed at the tools. “Dig,” he ordered darkly.
The Whiteshields started to dig hastily. As earth piled up around their ditch, Marsh Silas walked around it. “If you are wondering what you are doing, you are digging a new mortar pit. Continue, and listen. Last night was a simulated ambush. You failed. I failed also. Failure cannot be tolerated in the Astra Militarum. Not like that. So when we make mistakes, we pay the price. Keep digging.” He took his own and started to shovel away alongside them. The squad worked hard and, although haggard, completed the hole. When they finished, having been driven so hard so suddenly, they sat back against the embankment to catch their breath.
Marsh Silas slid his shovel into the soil and pulled out his Ripper Pistol. “All o’ you, draw your autopistols and discharge your magazines.” Although startled, the Whiteshields obeyed. “Empty your magazines. When all the bullets are in your palm, take out your weapons maintenance kits, polish the bullet, and reload it. When you complete one, move onto the next.”
“Every single one?” Graeme whined.
“You heard me, private. Do it.” Everyone complied. Their heads were low and their expressions dissatisfied. Marsh Silas finished first and scowled at them. “Regimental Commissar Ghent was my trainer from the moment I could walk. We worked hard every day, building our strength and our resolve. Every day, he ran us through one more grueling challenge to turn us into Guardsmen. I pushed in snow, mud, sand, and water, I ran barefoot upon ice until my feet bled. But I hated nothing more than this task right here.”
Marsh Silas emptied another magazine and cleaned the bullets. “Ghent made us polish our bullets every day. If he spotted one blemish upon our ammunition, the whole detail was ordered to repeat it. We cleaned and cleaned and cleaned until our fingers ached, wasting time in what we thought was cruel busywork. To be reduced to such a nagging ritual felt beneath us.” He finished another magazine and began his third. “I hated him for it, more than the time he gave me ten lashes for my boot laces coming untied in the middle of a sparring match.”
The platoon sergeant stood up, untucked his shirt, and showed them the faded, brown-reddish scars on his back. “Perhaps, selfishly, even more than when he executed my friend Clement after he disobeyed orders to save my life. Yet, during my first firefight, my mind came back to one small act. None of my weapons drills, not my small unit tactics exercises—all I remembered were these bullets.”
Marsh held up the rounds from his third magazine. They glinted in the sunlight, already perfectly clean. “A Guardsmen must suffer trials great and small if they are to become warriors, just as a bullet must be polished if it is to be fired or rockcrete must be chiseled to make a sculpture. I will not whip you or berate you, but hardships you will endure. Because with these lessons, you will rise to the occasion. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the Whiteshields answered. Marsh Silas stood up and holstered his sidearm.
“I can’t hear you!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Now, you pay attention to the teacher. We are gonna run those drills day in and day out. We will make this hard and you will apply yourselves.”
“Yes, sir!”
“And just how will you apply yourselves!?”
The Whiteshields hesitated. Suddenly, Rowley stood up and placed her arms at her sides as if she were standing at attention.
“Sir! I wish to qualify for Vox-caster training. I wish to become the squad Voxman!”
“I will become a Grenadier,” Yeardley cried.
“Make me a Field Chirurgeon!” yelled Rayden.
“Sharpshooter!” Tattersall exclaimed.
“Sir, I wish to become the assistant squad leader,” Webley said. “I’ll do anything I have to. I’ll work hard, I’ll train, whatever must be done, I will do it.”
Marsh Silas nodded and smiled at them. One by one, the Whiteshields rose and committed themselves. They were not going to let this defeat stop them. He knew they were going to use it and succeed. The coming days were going to be the most challenging they faced yet, he was going to make sure of that. But with this vigor, this spirit, this outpouring of courage, he knew they would succeed.
He looked at Carstensen and the Junior Commissar nodded firmly. But as Marsh was about to speak to the Whiteshields, he noticed Bloody Platoon walking up to them. The Veterans assembled around the trainees, their arms folded across their chests and their gazes fixed. Finally, Drummer Boy approached Rowley. His stern expression softened.
“You want to learn how to use the ghost box?” he asked her. Rowley nodded eagerly. “Then, I will teach you.” He turned around and faced Marsh Silas. “I’ll take her under my wing when you aren’t running drills, show her the codebooks. Her knowing how to read and write, thanks to you, will make quick work of that.”
“Drummer Boy…” Marsh began. Babcock walked up beside Marsh and put a hand on his shoulder.
“We should have been more helpful from the start. None o’ us thought these Whiteshields would be worth a damn and all this training was just foolishness. But, after last night, even though they didn’t pass your trial, we saw they had some fight in them.”
“Graeme gave me a hell of a knock!” Lance Corporal Hoole said.
“If they’re still willing to learn and fight after that, well, maybe showing them a thing or two ain’t such a bad idea,” Walmsley Major said, coming up on Marsh’s other side. “I’ll take them through heavy weapons drills; everything they need to know about Heavy Bolters and Lascannons, they’ll learn it.”
More Veterans volunteered their services. The Whiteshields excitedly looked around as Bloody Platoon helped them out of the pit. Hopeful, aspiring conversations grew between the young and old soldiers. Marsh Silas did not listen, he merely felt the energy all these determined souls created. As he looked between them, he spotted Commissar Ghent standing away from the group. The stoic officer’s gaze was hidden by the shadow of his high-peaked cap, but his lips were pressed into a thin line. But, for a moment, there appeared to be a smirk. Then, he turned away and walked down the slope. Marsh watched him depart, his own smile fading. The work had to resume.
***
Over the next few weeks, the Whiteshields drilled, drilled, and drilled. Marsh Silas, Carstensen, Hyram, and the rest of Bloody Platoon drove them hard. They endure lap after lap of heavily ladened runs up and down the cape to build up their endurance. The Whiteshields lost every race against their tutor. Again and again, in full-gear, they were forced to wade out to a buoy bobbing in the cold surf and to slosh their way back without getting their weapons wet. Pushups were practiced until their arms gave out. Meals were restricted to the bare minimum. Only a few hours of sleep were allowed. Each Whiteshield was schooled with heavy and special weapons under the tutelage of Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, Arnold Yoxall, and Sergeant Stainthorpe. As well, every day, they polished the bullets of their autopistol magazines for hours.
Life became difficult for the Whiteshields as they experienced these trials, but it also grew tough for Bloody Platoon. More and more members participated in their training and education until the entire unit was involved in these arduous tasks. The Whiteshields did nothing alone and the mockery they sustained from NCOs outside of the platoon was crushed by their Veteran companions. All of their hardships became the platoon’s.
Every day culminated in the night exercise. They practiced five, ten, even fifteen times a night. Each ambush was different—small arms only, melee weapons only, combined arms. Whiteshields learned painful hand-to-hand combat lessons. When they returned to sleep, they were covered with cuts and bruises. But they rose anew each morning, they struggled onward through each exercise, they succeeded in their squad role training, and they drove themselves so hard during the night patrol simulation.
When the entire platoon agreed they were ready, they staged the simulation for Colonel Isaev and Commissar Ghent’s review. On this bitterly cold night, the patrol moved swiftly down the road. Marsh, Carstensen, Hyram, Ghent, Giles, Eastoft, Isaev, staff officers, and many curious spectators followed behind them. As the patrol neared the bridge, Bloody Platoon Guardsmen masquerading as assailants rose again.
“Contact left!” Clivvy shouted. “Open fire!” The entire squad crouched and fired their simulation lasbolts. Ambushers feigned injuries and fell. “Yeardley, grenade!”
“Frag out!” the Whiteshield yelled, lobbing a dummy grenade. The pop and flash of the device forced the nearby attackers to the ground. The ambush settled and quiet resumed. Clivvy tapped Webley on her shoulder plate.
“Pick two men, confirm they’re down. Squad, watch your sectors. They may counterattack on our right.”
Positions changed as troopers moved to fill spaces in the squad’s formation and cover either side of the road. Webley, Graeme, and Leander prodded the bodies with sheathed bayonets. After a thorough search, they returned to the road.
“All enemies confirmed KIA,” Webley reported.
“Reform, and follow me,” Clivvy said. The squad advanced five more meters before a pair of round objects came hurtling out of the flowers on their right. “Grenade!” Clivvy shouted, kicking one away. Rowley scrambled to the other, picked it up, and tossed it back into the flowers. After they ‘detonated,’ more ambushers emerged. “Contact right!”
Some were very close to the road. Graeme disarmed one of the attackers before grappling him to the ground. Yeardley scored a direct hit against an opponent with the butt of his M36, giving Graeme a chance to disarm him. But then, a third ambusher came bolting out of the flowers and tackled Yeardley. Before he could land a blow, Rowley roared and shoved the man off Yeardley. Together, they incapacitated him.
After checking all the ‘bodies,’ the squad advanced to the bridge and formed a perimeter. Marsh Silas came walking up to Clivvy who saluted him. “Bridge secure, sir.”
“Well done,” Marsh said to her. “Damn good job.”
“Sir, with such discipline, motivation and experience, I believe the Whiteshields have proven themselves ready to partake in greater assignments,” Hyram professionally asid. Colonel Isaev briefly conferred with his buzzing attendants before coming forward. He eyed the Whiteshields warily; he appeared very annoyed.
“Lieutenant, just what are you asking for?”
“For Bloody Platoon to launch a long-range patrol into the hinterland for training purposes.” Isaev’s expression lightened with surprise. Even Marsh Silas and Carstensen could not help but gaze at one another in confusion.
“Training purposes?”
“They’ve proven themselves to be quite capable of patrolling this cape, but this location is secure. I want these troopers to be even more prepared, and taking them out on some marches and patrols along the coastal roads will be good experiences for them.” Hyram glanced at Marsh and winked. “As well, I would ask that the regiment adopt a similar training program so fresh Whiteshields can integrate with Veteran soldiers more cohesively.” Colonel Isaev looked over his shoulder at his retinue. Some of them nodded, others appeared to be less enthused with the idea. The senior officer cupped his chin and thought.
“Well, there is no denying these young men and women have greatly improved from the poor performance Ghent described to me. I will not spare the resources to adopt a training program for the other Whiteshields…” Marsh shut his eyes in disappointment. “...but I will consider your request for the training march.”
“Thank you, sir!”
The delegation departed. Giles and Eastoft whispered their congratulations to Hyram, Marsh, and Carstensen. As Bloody Platoon crowded in to praise the Whiteshields, Marsh cast another look at the departing personnel. Ghent was the last to go, displaying nothing but a mere nod.
“I thought the whole point o’ this exercise was to show Isaev we would be able to conduct the long-patrol,” Marsh said to Hyram. “What’s this talk of another training exercise?”
“Yours and Carstensen’s idea was very sound but Isaev may not have granted it, seeing as he is reluctant to acknowledge the pressing threats. He was hesitant enough to entertain this review. But, a harmless little training run, how could he object? If we just so happen to encounter an enemy ambush or force in the hinterland, well, I’ll have to make a judgment call as the leading officer to continue a pursuit of the enemy,” Hyram explained loftily, clearly feeling very pleased with himself.
“Your mind is too much for me, old boy,” Marsh said.
“Don’t sell yourself. You should be proud, both of you. I would have thought Commissar Ghent would have levied some praise too, at the least,” Hyram said as Bloody Platoon and the Whiteshields headed back to base.
“He’s the hardest man I know,” Marsh said. “That son of a bitch has always been tough on me.”
“I find he can be too harsh when he speaks to you, but what he has done has made you strong,” Carstensen assured him.
“It didn’t feel that way when he shot Clement,” Marsh murmured. He walked over to the short column at the end of Mason Bridge and sat. Carstensen stood beside him while Hyram knelt. “He was one o’ the boys I grew up in Polaris, along with Overton. Clement was the funny one, always smiling and laughing. His humor helped the three of us get through the Month of Making. He and Overton could both read and they helped me memorize the Primer. After my grandsires sent me to Macharia with mama after papa was killed, Clement wrote me letters and mama read them to me.”
Marsh Silas leaned forward and pressed his hands together, smiling in the light of the lamp post which stood over them. “When I came back, I was truly blessed, for I was placed in the 540th Youth Regiment alongside my old friends. It was a happy time, but not for long. At the Battle of Route 569, we were hit by a massive band of the Lost and the Damned, those vile renegades. We were ordered to retreat but I was hit by two slugs from an autogun.”
He tapped the right side of his chest. “I thought I was done for. But the Emperor sent Clement to find me. That boy fought his way back and carried me three hundred meters back to our new lines. Such bravery.” He smiled, laughed bitterly, and shook his head. Hyram did not speak, he merely placed a hand on Marsh’s knee. Throne, Marsh Silas loved him for that.
He drew a labored breath. “Clement’s reward was a bolt through his heart. Ghent said he disobeyed orders for the last time and shot him. I still remember falling out of his grasp into Overton’s arms. He ought to have been rewarded for that feat, not executed. Ghent never talked to me about him and I never forgave him, but I’ve never failed to afford him the proper respect due to his station.”
“I understand how that has been difficult over the years,” Hyram said. “The refusal to indulge your anger shows how good a man you are.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Marsh said. He lifted his head, smiled, and then stood up. “I’m just some fellow just trying to find his way.” Carstensen’s hand rested on his shoulder and she turned him around.
“Take solace, Silas. When you and I are done, no more shall Commissars punish the brave.”
The two gazed into one another, his violet eyes meeting her teal stare. Each afforded the other a small, soft smile. Hyram cleared his throat and pointed between the two of them.
“You just did it again, you called one another by your given names. What’s going on?”
“Sir, I can explain,” Carstensen said. “Staff Sergeant Cross and myself have…” She suddenly stopped short and looked over her shoulder. “What was that noise?”
Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen looked down Mason Bridge. Moonlight faded and blossomed, broken up by the cloud barrier. At the other end was another lonely lamp post, illuminating an empty road. Below, waves broke upon the rocks and the wind whistled timidly. But between the gentle gusts was a strange thudding and pounding sound.
“I hear it,” Marsh said, taking his M36 into his hands. I sense someone’s coming. Many people are coming down the road. I feel their black auras. Moonlight fluttered over the bridge, then it was obscured, and finally it returned. Just then, hundreds of hooded heretics crossed through the lamp light and stormed through the bridge. Marsh immediately took a knee and squeezed off several shots.
“Fall back!” Hyram hollered. Carstensen grabbed Marsh Silas by the back of his armor’s collar, dragged him away, and together, the trio bolted towards the base. They turned only to fire at their pursuers, who did not scream or shoot back. Like river rapids, the torrent of attackers flowed down the roadway and spilled into the fields on either side.
“Alarm! Alarm! Enemy attack!” Carstensen yelled as they sprinted towards the gates. Bright lights turned on all over camp as a siren wailed. As they came towards the gate, Bloody Platoon came flowing out led by the Whiteshields. They formed a semicircle and the heavy fusillade cut down the first ranks of the enemy. Once the three commanders were among their troops, they assumed positions along their line, fired at the enemy, and steadily collapsed their unit back through the gate. Guardsmen on either side closed the massive fences and locked them.
“Take up positions on the perimeter!” Marsh Silas yelled to Bloody Platoon. “Take cover among the barricades! Walmsley Major, get those Heavy Bolters up! Mark your targets before you fire!” As Hyram and Carstensen issued orders, the platoon sergeant embedded himself among the Whiteshields who had filled a square-shaped sandbag firing position adjacent to the gate. Firing over the heads of the Shock Troopers in the trenches below them, they created a wall of laser fire that swept through the enemy force. Searchlights panned back and forth across the grounds. Droves of enemies tumbled into the flowers.
Marsh did not shoot. He walked behind the Whiteshields even as bullets soared by his head. “That’s it! Keep it up! Pour it on’em! Mark your targets before your fire, maintain your fire! You’re doing well, Whiteshields!”
“Come on, keep hammering away!” Clivvy shouted over the noise. In the flashes of blue, red, and golden lasbolts, Marsh saw their young faces adopt their warrior masks. The amalgamation of fury, determination, fear, and excitement; wide eyes, bared teeth, roaring voices, and curled lips. They were soldiers now. Despite enemy grenades and satchel charges exploding near their position and the hundreds of rounds thudding into the sandbags, they did not flinch nor waver. All ten Whiteshields held firm against the onslaught.
“That’s it, men!” Hyram screamed, walking up and down the line of defenders. “That’s the style! Show them what the Emperor’s warriors are made of! You Whiteshields, you keep firing! You’re doing great, keep it up!”
“Yes, sir!” the young ones cried. Hyram and Marsh stood side by side, pausing to fire at the enemy. The heretics came in great numbers and bodies piled up in front of the parapet. They dispersed into the fields for concealment; they would fire, move, duck, and repeat. Imperial gunners lowered their mounted weapons’ elevation and sprayed the fields. Cries rose up from among the flowers. Petals and stalks were flung in all directions. Mortar teams behind them dropped shells on the enemy, sending up columns of earth and torn flowers. Still, the stalwart enemy force pressed close to the wire, but grenade attacks drove them back.
An engine rumbled to life and Master Sergeant Tindall steered his Chimera to the gate. When the gate was destroyed by a satchel charge, he used his APC as a roadblock. The vehicle’s Multi-laser opened up and streams of red rocketed from the barrel, obliterating heretic squads. The hull-mounted Heavy Bolter and the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter also added their might to the action. Some of the assaulters managed to draw close and lob grenades at the Chimera, but the armor withstood the blasts. After one explosion, however, the Storm Bolter stopped firing. Marsh looked over just in time to see the gunner fall into the turret.
Despite the massive amount of weapons directed upon them, the heretics were clinging to their foothold. More and more seemed to be adding their weight to the fight. The velocity of their fire was increasing. But Marsh Silas got out of cover anyway, sprinted to the Chimera, and clambered up. Bullets pinged off the hull as he racked the bolt and squeezed the triggers. The weapon made his arms shudder as he raked the enemy lines with automatic fire. Muzzle flashes, tracer rounds, colorful lasbolts, and the white flashes of explosions lit up the night. More grenades were thrown at their line; some blew up the coils of barbed wire and knocked over sandbag positions. But the Cadians returned to their posts each time and poured fire onto the enemy. It was a dazzling display of firepower.
Suddenly, the enemy stopped firing. The Cadians’ own fire dwindled. It went from a barrage to a sprinkling and then it ceased entirely. After a few moments of quiet, Guardsmen whooped, cheered, and gave thanks to the Emperor for another successful firefight. It stopped a few minutes later when they heard noise coming down the road. At first, some speculated it was friendly reinforcements. But Marsh Silas heard the combined breathing, the rattling weapons, and the thudding feet. Raising the magnoculars strung around his neck, he gazed down the road using the night vision feature. Another horde, even greater in number, was storming towards their camp. He dropped the scope and took hold of the weapon.
“Contact front! Open fire!” he yelled and the line exploded with another fusillade. It was going to be very long night.