At a bend in the road, separating a series of bluffs from the flatlands at the foot of the Dagger Mountains, came a column of Guardsmen. Marching south, brisk and steady, they moved in machine-like uniformity. Black leather boots thudded on the pavement while rucksacks and cartridge belts rustled against armor. Lit lho-sticks hung from their lips. Hands clutched the straps of their M36 lasguns, carried over their shoulders. Tall, broad, strong, wth purple, violet, lavender, indigo, and lilac colored eyes, they pressed forward with great cheer and smiling faces. These were the Guardsmen of 1st Platoon, 1st Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment—Bloody Platoon.
Although there were too many to name them all, they all knew and loved one another, and the names of a few should suffice. There was Efflemen, 1st Squad’s reserved and metered assistant squad leader, as well as Monty Peck, the best singer in the whole platoon. He was made all the more handsome by his curly blonde locks. Two of the corporals were Foley and Logue, who doubled as dearly close friends. Foley was an assistant squad leader as well, and quite a reliable one at that. Whenever they left camp, he carried with him a double-barreled shotgun as well as his M36. Logue lacked his companion’s penchant for authority and was far more taciturn. But he did share an interest in weapons, exemplified in the custom autopistol he carried as a secondary armament. Another notable name among the enlisted men was Felming, 3rd Squad’s grenadier. Compared to the many jovial and gregarious fellows, he was far more moody. Perhaps it was because of the damage to his face, now replaced with bionic plates. But he was noted as the best with their grenade launchers and was dependable. With him was a man named Cuyper, who like the majority of Bloody Platoon, served in the 540th Youth Regiment. He survived the unit’s destruction during the Battle of Kasr Turris seven years back. Tough and reliable, he provided a stoic edge to his squad.
Of the squad leaders themselves, there was Queshire, Mottershead, Holmwood, Stainthorpe, and Walmsley Major. Lithe and laidback, Queshre commanded 3rd Squad and might have appeared un-Cadan to some for his relaxed nature. But he was flexible in a fight and very brave. Holmwood led 1st Squad and the stern man led a hardworking squad. They were the first to line up in review and were often practicing firing drills in their spare time under his leadership. Mottershead, leading 2nd Squad, was similar; the two men had square-cut faces and robust bodies. No one could be blamed for believing the figures depicted in Cadian morale posters were based on their likenesses. Stainthorpe was an intelligent fellow commanding 6th Squad, which was composed of weapon specialists. To be in charge of men tasked to carry more intricate equipment such as plasma guns or Melta-weapons required tact and thoughtfulness—two traits he possessed in bulk. Walmsley Major commanded 4th Squad, the first of the two Heavy Weapons Squads. Tall, strong, broad in body and face, he was an amiable and simple looking chap. In actuality, he was an expert with almost any big gun, from simple Heavy Stubbers to complex Lascannons. His favorite was the Heavy Bolter, which he shared with his twin, whom everyone called Walmsley Minor. Much of his brother was in him, although the younger Walmsley could be somewhat more emotional.
There were still more Guardsmen. Arnold Yoxall, a scholarly and pious fellow and demolitions expert who carried a Meltagun. Derryhouse, a rather mousy fellow but still of good Cadian stock. He carried a Mk. 35 Cadian-pattern plasma gun, and happily too, even if the weapon threatened to blow up in his hands. His duties were double, as he served as the spotter for Bullard, the platoon’s lanky and keen-eyed sniper who carried a typical Cadian-pattern long-las. Then there was Tatum, who was generally quiet though that was lost in combat; with each burst from his Flamer came a yowl that split the air. Jupp, a hard-fighting and courageous infantryman who had so many medals his friends joked he needed no armor on his chest. There was Hitch, he carried a plasma gun too, though was far more wary of the weapon. That caution was not reflected in his combat bravery.
Spread among the infantry squads were the three field chirurgeons, Walcott, Salvia, and Battiste. These men were apt students of the Medicae but nonetheless able practitioners of war. And what of the other heavy weapon operators? Albert and Brownlow manned the other Heavy Bolter beside the Walmsley brothers and they were very good fellows. Sudworth and Lowe, two bulky chaps, had the honor of manning a Cadian’s favorite large gun: the Autocannon. Foster, who had a bionic jawbone, and Ledford, owning a cybernetic arm, operated the Lacannon. Knaggs and Fletcher were considered very brave, often exposing themselves to tank fire to line up shots with their missile launcher. Finally, there was Synder, a loud man, and Olhouser, an ex-artilleryman and hero of the 1547th Light Artillery Regiment. He held high honors—the Obscurus Honorifica—for defending his mortar pit against an enemy attack and preventing them from overrunning the entire position. Humble, he was just happy to help his comrades with his mortar.
Yet, there were many more still! Astle the Voxman of 2nd Squad, Capron the grenadier, Northmore and Keach, troopers both. But what was a platoon without its command element marching at the head of the column? Staff Sergeant Babcock, often referred to as a Color Sergeant, carried the standard. A score older than most of the men in the unit, he was immensely valorous in battle, often relying only on a laspistol and a sword—or the flag itself! His courage was metered by his affectionate and dutiful care for the banner. Then there was Drummer Boy, the senior Voxman, though this was not determined by age. He was the youngest in the whole platoon but was an expert with the Vox-caster. His enthusiasm and cheer were welcomed by everyone. Next to him was the irritable and cranky Honeycutt, the one man to have served off Cadia and to have come back. While he was certainly grumpy and foul-mouthed, he was compassionate, intelligent, and hardworking. Then, there was the platoon leader, Lieutenant Hyram. Just a little older than the majority of men, handsome, wise, he had shed his veneer of timidity and become an able officer. Supporting him was Junior Commissar Carstensen, a young but resplendent political officer with a distinguished record. Her fiery red hair was as fierce as the power fist she wore on her hand, but her counsel was wise and stout.
But the platoon’s true second-in-command was the platoon sergeant, a man who did not walk at the head but to the side of the formation. He was a stocky fellow with a pair of piercing violet eyes, stubble on his jaw, golden blonde hair, a crooked smile, and a determined expression. Staff Sergeant Silas Cross, but to the men of the Bloody Platoon, he was known by an altogether different name.
“Marsh Silaaaaas!”
“Who’s that belting?”
“Tis I, Drummer Boy!”
“What do you be wanting, Drummer Boy?”
“Permission to relieve myself!”
Marsh Silas, striding beside Bloody Platoon as they marched down the road, snorted and shook his head. He regarded column marching Shock Troopers who were already beginning to snicker at the leading Voxman. Grinning to himself, he picked up the pace so he was adjacent to the head of the column consisting of the platoon command squad. Lieutenant Hyram was in the center with Babcock and Honeycutt on his right, while Drummer Boy and Carstensen marched to his left. Voxman. Marsh Silas leveled his gaze with his younger friend.
“Now, what makes ya think this ol’ platoon sergeant can convince the platoon leader to halt the entire column just so you can drain yer other lasgun?”
“Methinks the platoon leader would not appreciate one o’ his men with wet trousers returning to base under review of both the regimental commander and company commander, Marsh Silas.”
Marsh stole a glance at Hyram. Although he could only see the left side of his face, he saw the Lieutenant was smiling and doing his best not to laugh. Carstensen, on the other hand, was glaring at him, clearly unhappy with the casual, kidding nature of the conversation.
“What’s say you, sir?” Marsh asked the platoon leader. “He makes a fair point. Just what would a superior officer make of a Cadian Shock Trooper with soiled trousers? I think the blame’ll surely fall on his commanding officer and not himself for such a shameful sight.”
Hyram pretended to think for a moment and then looked at his wrist-chrono..
“We’re far ahead of schedule. I think we’ve enough time to rest our feet, fill our bellies, and allow the good corporal to alleviate his woes.” He raised his fist into the air. “Platoon, halt!”
Bloody Platoon came to a stop on a deserted stretch of road a few kilometers north of the winding coastal route. On the west side of the road there was a steep embankment which led up to one of the bluffs. To the east, the embankment gently sloped downward into a flat plain dusted with white snow and the occasional yellow winter shrub. Only a few gnarled, twisted, barren tree trunks were at the top of the right hand embankment. Towering over this field was the slope of one of the Dagger Mountains' smaller hills.
Hyram spun around on his heel. “Corporal Bullard, Corporal Derryhouse, get yourselves to the top of the rise to keep watch. Staff Sergeant Walmsley, set up a blocking position a few meters ahead, Albert, Brownlow, do the same to our rear. Use the trees for cover. Bloody Platoon, fall out. Drummer Boy, get a move on before you make a mess.”
Breaking formation, the Guardsmen chatted jovially among themselves. Drummer Boy darted over to one of the trees, unzipped his trousers, and sighed in satisfaction. The others slid down the embankment and grouped up. Most took out their mess kits and cut open their ration packs. Hyram went down with the men and visited each clique sharing a few words with them and providing some encouragement for the march ahead. Honeycutt and the field chirurgeons made their rounds, taking off the boots of Guardsmen who were complaining about sores or blisters. Soothing ointment was provided to sores while knives were drawn to begin the grisly business of lancing the blisters.
Instead of joining them, Marsh Silas remained on the embankment, took off his helmet, and leaned against a tree. After adjusting the straps of his M36 on his right shoulder and the Lathe-pattern combat shotgun on his left, he took out his ebony pipe. Turning it around, he ran his thumb over the golden Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl. From a small leather pouch, he pinched out some dried tabac leaves and placed them in the bowl. Tucking the pouch away, he then struck a match against his opposite pauldron, dipped it into the bowl, and puffed on the end. Soon enough, thin, aromatic gray smoke rose from the bowl and filled his lungs. Inhaling deeply, he waved the match out and flicked it away.
His violet eyes twinkled as they fell on Bloody Platoon. Most of the men’s faces were filthy from days of patrolling in the field and stubble coated their cheeks. Brown mud stains covered their pant legs and smears of snow from the few blizzards they experienced on the long marches clung to their heavy winter coats. Each rucksack was a size bigger than usual and everyone was tired. But they were smiling, joking, laughing, swapping war stories, and passing off bogus advice to one another about fieldcraft, women, and drinking. It was such a wonderful sight that Marsh could not help but smile warmly at them.
Eventually, his eyes drifted down to his boots. However beautiful it was, it always became bittersweet. The image was incomplete. He remembered a dark-haired, pale fellow who drifted in and out of the camp at Army’s Meadow. Some days, Marsh Silas felt as though his old friend would just saunter back into or maybe find him strolling down the road while the platoon was on patrol. What words would they exchange if the Emperor granted those wishes? ‘‘By the Throne, man, wherever have you been!?’ ‘I’ve been out looking for you, you’re a hard man to find!’ ‘And you harder, for I’ve been searching for you as well!’ ‘What fools we are!’ Just musing on it made him chuckle a little.
He looked up the road, then back down the way they came, and then over either shoulder, just to check. As often as he disappeared, Marsh remembered how he was always able to turn around to find him already present. It was often as jarring as it was annoying. However he used to feel, now he turned, turned, and turned, hopeful and expectant. After so long, it seemed foolish to still grow disappointed when he found the space around him empty.
Marsh fingers slid up his pipe, curled his forefinger and middle finger around it, and lifted his third and little fingers. Drawing the pipe away, he exhaled and a thick cloud of smoke rose into the air with his hot breath. The Emperor blessed them, for it was a cold day but there was no wind. For once, the sky was cloudless too and the sun made it almost too hot to wear an overcoat. One might have welcomed that in a sector of Cadia which saw short summers and long winters, especially on a windswept cape where there was always wind. Others might have complained about the sea breezes but he found himself enjoying them. It came from those days, at sunsets and sunrises, not patrolling but merely walking with his friend, through yellow flower fields and along sandy beaches. It would be good to return to the base and its wonderful salty breeze.
“You’re due for a shave when we return to base,” Carstensen said. Marsh jumped a little and faced her.. She didn’t quite smile but it was not a frown either. Although the sun was high and warm, the rays were broken up by the limbs of the tree they were under, casting intermittent shadows across her pale face. Her blue-green eyes, appearing like the ocean’s tide on a chilly day, glittered radiantly.
“And a wash for us all,” Marsh replied. After taking another puff on it, he handed it to Carstensen. She took it up in her gloved hand, pressed the end to her lips, and took a long drag. A moment passed and she exhaled. Nodding, she handed it back to him. “Do Commissars not receive a supply of lho-sticks, ma’am?”
In the time since Carstensen first arrived, Marsh Silas was still somewhat wary of her. Any Guardsman who used his head was wise enough not to disrespect or earn the ire of any Commissar regardless of their rank or experience. But they had fought many battles and countless skirmishes together. More than that, she was a part of the platoon; she dined, slept, and spent every moment with the troops. He trusted her, and more so, felt comfortable enough to at least make light of small things when none of the Guardsmen were around.
“No need when one can share,” she said in an almost teasing fashion. “Is it the contents of that pipe that draw your mind away or is it something else?”
“A year gone by but Kasr Fortis lingers still,” Marsh replied after a sigh. “I miss him.”
“I do not know many who would fret over the absence of an Inquisitor,” Junior Commissar Carstensen said, folding her hands behind her crimson coat and standing closer to him. “I respected him, as all should respect an Inquisitor, but I did not know him as you did. He seemed different.”
“Different an’ more, ma’am,” Marsh said sadly, shaking his head. “But he was good and that’s what mattered the most to me.”
“We should all be so blessed to have known such an individual who provided able service to the Emperor,” Carstensen said. Marsh caught her dignified gaze out the corner of his eyes as he continued to stare off into the open fields.
“A servant o’ the Emperor and the whole Imperium,” Marsh said, then smiled at her. “But more an’ that, he was my good friend.” He held up the pipe again for her to take it, the neck pointed towards her. Instead, she reached out, gently took his hand in her’s, leaned forward, and puffed on the pipe a few times. As she did, a few loose locks of orange hair spilled out from underneath her high-peaked cap and swept across her brow. Marsh found himself looking longer than he intended and did not realize she was gazing back until she cocked her head to the side.
Clearing his throat, he turned his attention forward and hastily puffed on his pipe. “All I got is this here pistol,” he tapped the holster strung across his chestplate. It was a new, larger, brown leather holster containing his Ripper Pistol. “And this shotgun to remind me o’ him.”
Carstensen eyed him curiously, then offered a very tender smile. Marsh blinked, unused to seeing it.
“He gave you more than that. He filled your head with dreams and ideas. Inspiration is just about the greatest gift one man can give to another.” But her smile softened. “Though, it is sad to know it draws you elsewhere.”
Marsh shifted uncomfortably on his feet and looked away. Carstensen stepped closer. She did not lean on the tree but she was close enough that her shoulder was touching his. “Do you think they’ll approve the commission this time?”
“I know not. I pray so, and I pray it is not so either,” Marsh said heavily as he gazed at the ground. “I’ll miss these sorry gunmen. But I think this is the way. I chose to stay in the Guard so I can make a difference for folks. There ain’t much more I can do for these men. I have to help others; applying for officership is the best way to do it.” He held out the pipe. Again, she merely held his hand as she smoked it.
“It is an honorable thing, Silas,” she said quietly.
“A hard thing nonetheless,” he replied. “It feels like it is the right path. I know it’s right, because it is hard. Barlocke said that to me, in so many words. Wasn’t sure I understood it at the time, but I know it to be true. The path that’s hardest, the way that has obstacles—that is the way.”
“They will miss you,” Carstensen stoically said. Marsh looked up to see her gazing off into the middle distance. Her face was stony, though it often was. He’d grown accustomed to that expression and could read it well; she was somber. Marsh’s lips twitched into a smile.
“Will you miss me, too?” he asked. Carstensen met his eyes and her lips parted slightly. Marsh just gazed back, his head low but his eyes up. The Junior Commissar’s lips moved a little.
“Recaf!”
The two shuffled away from one another as Hyram walked up with two tin mugs. His expression was amiable, accentuated by his long, thick sideburns which came over his jaw. Like Marsh Silas, stubble was growing on his cheeks. Marsh and Carstensen awkwardly took the mugs, blew on the steaming contents, and took delicate sips. In turn, the platoon sergeant gave his commanding officer his pipe. Hyram leaned against the trunk between the two of them and smoked happily.
“They’ll most likely have news of your commission approval by the time we return,” he said. “What will I do without you?”
“Ah, you have the Junior Commissar, all will be well,” Marsh said, slurping his recaf. He gestured down the road towards the Walmsley twins. “Make Walmsley Major your new second. He’s senior, he’s brave, he knows the fellows, and despite that mug he’s smart. It’s also time his brother took up a squad leader role, he is due for advancement.”
“You’ve got it all figured,” Hyram said, smirking with the pipe in his lips.
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“Nah, I just know this lot.”
For a time, the trio watched Bloody Platoon. Drummer Boy finally joined one of the small clots of men and indulged in his rations. Some men were already done eating and were catching a few minutes of sleep by using their rucksacks as pillows. Others broke out cards and started to play Black Five. More policed their equipment; charge packs were cycled, autopistols cleaned, barrels swept, and knives sharpened. Everyone was smoking and chatting.
Marsh stared at his friends and contemplated. Yes, he’d receive news. If his request for a commission was approved, it was time to say farewell. He wouldn’t live among them like he did now. An officer was close, but a world apart. He’d be different, he told himself. If he was going to bring about the great change, he would start right there. An officer could earn respect as well as friendship without diminishing either regard.
He decided to sit among them and enjoy the scene. Marsh slugged the remainder of his recaf, took back his pipe, and pushed off the tree. Just as he took his first steps, he caught movement to his left. Derryhouse was running across the road. Behind him, Bullard was sliding down the slope of the bluff. The sniper his the bottom on his feet and deftly sprang forward into a sprint.
“Heretics!” Derryhouse said, pointing back at the hill’s crest. “Over a hundred o’em!”
“Damn, we ain’t in the best spot,” Marsh said to Hyam.
“No, we can implement a reverse slope defense on this line,” Hyam said, motioning with the side of his hand. “Staff Sergeant, stagger the men along this embankment. Fix bayonets.”
“Got it, sir!” Marsh turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “On yer feet, Shock Troopers and quickly now! We got heretics that need killing! Fix bayonets and stand-to!”
Bloody Platoon jumped into action. Marsh ran through the number, directing the squad leaders who in turn ordered their men into position. Everyone threw themselves onto the snowy embankment, crawled up to the crest, and fixed their sights on the opposite gradient. Guardsmen detached fragmentation grenades from their webbing and laid them out beside them. Others took out their combat knives and drove them into the soil beside them. Hyram went to each Heavy Weapons team and personally managed their positioning. Both Heavy Bolter teams remained on either end of their line while the Autocannon team erected their weapon behind a tree on the left flank. On the right flank, the Lascannon team took up a similar position. In the center was the missile launcher team who elevated their weapon on a tripod. The mortar team remained at the bottom of the embankment, hastily digging a fighting hole into the ground for cover. When they finished, they set up the tripod of their weapon, adjusted the range and trajectory, and opened a box of shells.
As the platoon dug in, Marsh Silas paced up and down the line. “Mark your targets before your fire. Keep your M36’s set to semi-automatic mode, do not burn through your charge packs. Grenadiers, fragmentation rounds if you’d please. Five to eight round bursts on the Heavy Bolters. Spare charge packs and grenades where you can reach’em.”
Walking in the opposite direction was Junior Commissar Carstensen.
“You are Imperial Guardsmen. Do not give mere thanks to the Emperor for blessing you with life in his realm. Repay Him not just with faith alone but by smiting the enemy that foolishly fights against Him! Prove they are no match for Cadians!”
Bloody Platoon bellowed a great cheer. Marsh joined in, raising his fist into the air. When he and Carstensen passed each other, shoulder to shoulder, he nodded at her. In turn, she tapped him on the shoulder. He bumped his fist against her chestplate. The platoon sergeant found Hyram on the firing line with Drummer Boy on his right and Babcock on his left.
“...Primus One is holding ground and preparing to engage. Over and out,,” the Voxman said into the handset before taking up his arms.
“The moment they traverse the crest of the rise we’ll open fire with everything we have. The sun will be in their face and our position will minimize their time to attack,” Hyram said, jotting something down in his logbook. He tucked it into a pouch, turned onto his side, reached over, and jostled Babcock by his arm. “You may want to plant the flag and take cover.”
“Oh no, sir, I’m fine standing,” Babcock insisted. He drew his laspistol but continued to clutch the standard in his left hand. “We wouldn’t want the wind to catch the ol’ flag and knock her over. That would be mighty shameful!” he added as Marsh squeezed in between them.
“Some other units are engaged so air support won’t arrive for about fifteen or twenty minutes, Staff Sergeant,” Hyram said.
Marsh checked his sights, ensured the bayonet was attached firmly to the lug, and ensured his charge pack was full. When he finished, he tapped the bottom of the magazine and then the side of the M36.
“Well that’s a shame; we’ll be finished with the enemy before they can drop any o’their payloads,” Marsh remarked.
A few more orders were issued up and down the line. Then, all that could be heard was the steady breathing of the Guardsmen and the various clicks as they finished checking their lasguns. Marsh swept his M36 across the top of the rise. The natural formation was shaped like a crescent moon, steadily growing steeper in the center but gradually declining at its edges. While steep, it was sloped enough that a man could clamber up or walk down without too much trouble. A few yellow scrub bushes and tufts of prairie grass dotted the rise’s face as well as a few black rocks.
He looked up and down the line, seeing nothing but olive drab helmets, khaki pant legs, and boots. Everyone was focused. Carstensen still moved behind them, holding her Bolt Pistol in her right hand and wearing her power fist on her left. Already, blue energy wreathed around the metallic knuckles and resonated on the back of her hand. Her forefinger, just above the trigger guard of her weapon, tapped the side of her weapon eagerly.
She caught him looking her way. The sun was high behind their backs and the bill of Carstensen’s high-peaked cover cast a shadow over her eyes. Their gaze lingered for a time until she offered a smile, one so quick Marsh was unsure whether it actually was a smile. But he did the same and held it so she couldn’t miss it. It felt good.
He looked forward. A figure, no more than mere silhouette, appeared at the top of the crest. They raised a jagged dagger into the air and unleashed a shrill war cry. Hyram immediately took aim and fired. The lasbolt struck the heretic right in the knee and severed his calf. Crying out, the heretic dropped the weapon and tumbled down the slope. Several other Guardsmen peppered the body with lasbolts until all that remained was a scorched trunk. It came to a rest at the bottom of the slope with a heavy thunk.
A line of figures appeared at the top of the rise. Autogun fire poured down on the Guardsmen. Dozens upon dozens of yellow muzzle flashes flared along the crest. Dark figures clad in rags and sack hoods charged down the slope. Golden, red, and blue lasbolts struck them, blasting off limbs, severing heads, and opening flesh. They fell in scores, rolling down the decline and piling up at the bottom. Heavy Bolter tracers arched back and forth, cutting down entire lines of incoming heretics. Some were riddled by so many shells they fell into pieces. Blood splattered onto the fresh white snow. Messy, blackened tracks were left in the wakes of the attackers. Flanking forces appeared, running over the shorter, narrow flanks of the rise. Thinned by automatic fire, they continued on. Many fell but soon they were reaching the paved road. Guardsmen lobbed grenades and the detonations cast dust and shrapnel in all directions. Autocannon shells ripped into larger crowds, slicing heretics into pieces. The velocity of the shells was so great they sometimes ripped through a man entirely and detonated in a white-gray cloud on the soil behind them. Grenadiers fired deliberately, the shells finding heretics moving together in tight packs. Scattered by the small blast and ripped up by shrapnel, these groups fell apart. White-blue plasma bolts struck heretics dead on and tore their torsos open, exposing and obliterating rib cages.
More came down the slope. Marsh Silas reloaded and fired at the ones who managed to reach the paved road. They were armed with autoguns of poor construct; some of the weapons would fall apart in the heretics’ hands when they squeezed the trigger. On they came, wielding swords and daggers. Their screaming filled the air but was met by the deep, manly shouting of the Guardsmen. Heretics lined up on the crest to provide covering fire; this fire was more dangerous as these foes possessed lasguns. But the mortarmen, Olhouser and Snyder, adjusted their weapon’s trajectory and slid large shells down the tube. A few moments later, a column of white snow and black earth flew skyward from the crest. Those who were caught in the radius were thrown in all directions.
Suddenly, a few grenades exploded behind the firing line. Screaming soon followed. Marsh turned and saw the mortar pit was bracketed by grenade launcher shells.
“Bullard, take out those enemy grenadiers!” Marsh shouted and then slid down the embankment. Olhouser was sitting on the rim of the pit with his helmet off. He held his ears and blood leaked through his fingers. Both eyes were squeezed shut and he bared his clenched teeth. Synder was on his hands and knees. A bloody spot was forming on the left side of his lower back. The center was deeply red.
Marsh dropped his M36 and put his weight on him. Drawing his trench knife, he cut away the heavy clothing and thermal layer. Examining the wound, he saw a piece of shrapnel lodged in his flesh. Reaching into his kit bag, he took out a spare glove and bunched it up. “Bite down on this!” He ordered, stuffing the glove into Synder’s mouth. The poor Guardsman accepted but he was still moaning and grunting in pain.
Still partly laying on him and still under fire, Marsh probed the wound with the tip of his knife. Synder screamed as the metal touched the opened, bleeding flesh. His feet kicked and he dug his gloved fingers into Cadian soil. Steam rose from the hot metal. Marsh slipped the blade against the shrapnel, found the end, and applied pressure. Screaming so long and loud, the mortarman released the glove in his mouth. With a quick effort, Marsh extracted the shrapnel from the wound. In the same moment, the shrapnel touched his exposed fingertips. He cried out at the pain and dropped the knife. But he dug into his kit bag, yanked out the first aid pack, and took out a pressure dressing. He planted it on the wound and held it with both hands. “Medic!” Marsh hollered, long and loud. Honeycutt appeared a few moments later and removed Marsh’s hand.
“Get back on-line,” the senior medic said, “I’ve got him!”
Field chirurgeons Walcott and Salvia were already providing aid to Olhouser. Collecting his trench knife, Marsh then leaped back into his position. He found the platoon was experiencing heavier fire than before. The heretics were no longer charging down the slope but were prone along the crest, firing down into the position. Two Heavy Stubbers, one on either flank, were chugging away. Albert and Brownlow were exchanging fire with one on the right flank. But heretics were trying to come around on Bloody Platoon’s left, utilizing the crescent-moon shaped rise for cover. To keep them from flanking their position, Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor were suppressing their movements with their Heavy Bolter.
Hyram grabbed Marsh by the collar of his Flak Armor.
“They’re trying to gain fire superiority!” the Lieutenant shouted. “We need to knock out or keep their gun positions engaged.” Marsh knew most of the men were occupied with suppressing enemy movement. Bullard was still engaging grenadiers, Foster and Ledford were eliminating new enemy gun positions with the Lascannon. The Missile Launcher was receiving too much fire, preventing Knaggs and Fletcher from firing. Sudworth and Lowe were displaced to the right flank with the Autocannon to suppress enemy movement there.
Hyram pointed at the Heavy Stubber, removed from the main heretic firing line at the top of the crest. “Get down the line, advance from Walmsley’s position, and knock out the gun any way you can! We’ll give you as much cover fire as possible!”
Marsh turned to move but Hyram caught his shoulder and turned him back. His expression was grave. “It’s a hell of an order, Silas. You may not come back.”
The platoon sergeant met Hyram’s gaze for merely a moment. Then, he smiled and winked.
“Got it, sir!”
Sliding to the bottom of the embankment, he moved at a half-crouch until he reached the Walmsley brothers. Crawling up to the lip of the embankment, he spotted the enemy machine gun. He checked his charge pack and took a breath. “Keep me covered,” he said to the gun team beside him. Both brothers nodded. Rolling over, Marsh looked back down the line and saw Hyram. He raised one thumb into the air. The platoon returned the gesture.
“Covering fiiiiire!” he shouted. Bloody Platoon poured heated lasgun and plasma fire on the enemy position. Marsh jumped to his feet, sprinted across the road as autogun slugs riddled the pavement around him, and dove onto the slope of the rise. Beneath the majority of their guns, he knew they couldn’t fire on him without unduly exposing themselves. After taking a moment to overcome the frenzy of his dash, he crawled up the slope. He kept his M36 pointed forward, holding the grip in his right hand.
Above him, the enemy Heavy Stubber team was still firing on Bloody Platoon. Marsh didn’t take his eyes off it as he made his way upwards. He didn’t stop until he heard the garbled, unintelligible voices of heretics directly on the other side of the rise. Just as he brought his M36 to bear, four heretics came over the top. A burst of Heavy Bolter fire from the Walmsley’s weapon cut them down. Two corpses fell backwards while two more tumbled over Marsh.
There was no time to give a signal of thanks. He continued slithering towards the enemy position. A figure appeared, holding an antiquated shoulder-held missile launcher. Before he fired, a large lasbolt from Bullard’s long-las hit him. The heretic disappeared from sight.
About ten meters or so below the Heavy Stubber, Marsh stopped. The position he was in made it difficult to shoot. Instead, he primed a grenade, cooked it for a few seconds, and then chucked it at the enemy position. He ducked down and held his helmet with both hands, peeking just enough to see it. The grenade exploded in midair directly over the Heavy Stubber team. The barrel disappeared and the firing stopped.
Marsh grinned briefly. He made his way up to the crest and looked over. There were no more heretics attempting to use the left flank. Both gunners operating the Heavy Stubber were dead, their heads opened by shrapnel. But there were still enemies lining the crest and firing down at the platoon. Using the crest for cover, he occupied the enemy fighting position and primed another grenade. It detonated among the main line of heretical attackers and disrupted their rate of fire.
He moved along the crest, half-crouched. On the opposite side, heretic sharpshooters discovered his movements; lasbolts seared through the air near his head. Bullets thudded into the soil and rocks around. Some hit right between his feet. One round even flew through his rucksack and another bounced off his shoulder plate. Each round and lasbolt came closer to finding its mark and Marsh couldn’t help but release loud, stressed grunts with each hit. Before long, the enemy fire abated as Hyram directed the Heavy Weapons Squads’ fire on the sharpshooters. Even the mortar fire resumed and shells hammered the heretics.
Finally, he hit the dirt adjacent to the enemy position. It offered a much better firing angle and he picked off targets one by one. After he eliminated several, they turned their fire on him. Others stood up and charged. Marsh slung his M36 over his shoulder and drew the shotgun. He detached the bayonet to the M36 lug, fixed it to the shotgun, and rose to a crouch just as the heretics closed in on his position. He squeezed the trigger and unleashed four Inferno Shells. Half a dozen targets were quickly set ablaze. Another wave of attackers was dispatched and he ducked down to reload. Sliding in regular shells, he filled the eight-round cylinder and then got back up to fire again. A single attacker rushed him with his sword raised above their head. Before they could bring it down, Marsh lunged and drove the bayonet into the heretic’s stomach.
Driving it deeper, Marsh stood up completely and kicked his assailant on his back. The act freed his bayonet and he proceeded to open the enemy’s throat with it. When he looked up, he saw the majority of heretics were retreating. Marsh transitioned back to his M36 and charged at them. When they saw a lone Guardsman among them, some of the enemies turned to fight him.
Marsh shot one down, then another, and then bayoneted a third. A fourth came storming at him with nothing but a knife. Swinging his M36 around, he slashed the heretic across the throat and then pierced his stomach. Then, he felt someone grab him from behind. Two arms wrapped around his midsection and tried to bring him down. Using his superior weight, he wrenched the attacker forward onto the ground. Jumping on him, Marsh hit the hooded heretic in the face with his fist. Once they were stunned, the platoon sergeant drew his Ripper Pistol and fired a single shot into their head. Still kneeling, he raised the pistol and cut down a small group with the weapon’s automatic fire feature.
Holstering it, he went to pick up his M36 but another heretic came at him. Stuck across the jaw, Marsh reeled briefly but was able to recover. Drawing his trench knife, he slammed the steel knuckle guard against the heretic’s jaw. It audibly cracked and his opponent staggered. Grabbing the traitor by their threadbare collar, he drove the knife into their neck three times in rapid succession. Pushing them away, he sheathed his knife and took up his M36. When he turned, he found a heretic taking aim at him with an autogun. Just as he raised his M36, a red lasbolt struck the heretic. Hyram came bounding over the crest wielding his laspistol and power sword, screaming like mad. Next came Carstensen and then the rest of Boody Platoon. Washing over the remaining attackers like an ocean wave, they cut down swathes of retreating heretics with concentrated laser fire. Following Hyram, they ran after them and bayoneted the stragglers. Bloody Platoon shouted and whooped as the pursuit continued over one hundred, then two hundred meters. Many heretics were attempted to flee across open ground.
“Halt, halt, halt!” Hyram ordered. Bloody Platoon formed a line and continued firing.. Marsh regrouped with his commanding officer. Hyram yanked a colored smoke grenade from his webbing and pulled the pin. Thick, yellow smoke rose into the air as he grabbed the handset. “Avenger, this is Primus One-Six; we’ve marked our position with yellow smoke. Repeat, do not fire on the yellow smoke.”
“Roger, One-Six. Keep your heads down, we’re coming in.”
The heretics proceeded to escape across open ground. Soon, hundreds of meters separated the opposing forces. Then, Marsh Silas heard the droning sound of large engines. He looked to his left and saw a flight of five Marauder Bombers in wedge formation. As they came closer, the sound of their engines grew louder. The noise was incredibly powerful and drowned out every other sound on the battlefield. The olive drab, stocky bombers glinted in the sunlight. Barrels of the Heavy Bolters protrude from dorsal and rear turrets. Twin-linked Lascannons jutted out from the bow gunnery position.
All the Guardsmen ceased their activity to watch the spectacle unfold. The Marauders’ doors opened and hundreds of bombs tumbled from their bellies. Whistling filled the air as they fell. Massive brown columns of earth shot skyward, engulfing the heretics. So many bombs fell on the hilly territory the ground vibrated beneath Marsh’s feet. Smaller stones and pebbles shuddered. Despite being many hundreds of meters away from the bombing run, Marsh felt the shockwave through the air. Some of the looser straps of his webbing flapped backwards as if struck by a strong gust of wind.
Hundreds of columns rose and fell, as if there was an earthen sea before them. When the Marauders finally banked from their attack run, the bombing ceased and Cadia grew very still. Marsh raised the magnoculars from the cord around his neck and examined the countryside. Ahead, all he could see were deep, black bomb craters. No bodies were visible. Lowering them, he grinned at the Lieutenant.
“Good effect on target, sir.”
Bloody Platoon gave a great cheer. Many sank to their knees to thank the Emperor not just for sparing their lives but for granting them victory once more. Marsh went around the men with the other NCOs, ensuring everyone who was present was not wounded and was in possession of all their wargear. Once the platoon was in good order, they began walking back down the slope to their original position. Taking a moment to stand on the crest, Marsh looked down. Hundreds of bodies littered the slope and many more were piled at the bottom. Dozens were scattered across the paved road. Most of the Heavy Weapons Squads were still in their positions. He could see Honeycutt still treating Olhouser, Synder, and a few of the Guardsmen who received light wounds during the engagement.
While the platoon celebrated, Marsh lingered with Hyram and Carstensen. Neither of them were jubilant and neither was the platoon sergeant. Taking out his pipe but not lighting it, Marsh put the neck to his lips and sighed. “What’s that make this one, sir? The tenth?”
“The twelfth,” Hyram corrected. He sheathed his power sword and holstered his sidearm. Gazing out at the fields, he took his helmet off and shook his head. “I do not understand it. We cleared the sector around Army’s Meadow more than six months ago. The heretics have no place to hide yet their numbers grow.”
“Probing attacks on the camp, ambushes in the countryside, heretic patrols on the roads. It possesses all the signs of a build up.” Carstensen turned to Marsh Silas. “When we return to Army’s Meadow, we should reinforce the trenches. Ammo stashes, secondary barbed wire entanglements, mines, anything we can do to fortify our section.”
“Aye, and keep the men trained up,” Marsh offered, taking the pipe from his mouth. He turned it over in his hands several times and then spit. “Big country out there, sir. But if we can find them heretics, we can kill’em.”
“Indeed, Staff Sergeant,” Hyram said. “We’ll make a report to Colonel Isaev upon our return. Police your wargear, collect the wounded; we’re moving out.”