All the next day, Bloody Platoon prepared for its mission into the hinterland. Men taped modifications and attachments to their M36’s to ensure they would not rattle. After sharpening them, bayonet blades and trench knives were painted black so the metal wouldn’t catch moonlight. Even their standard-issue lasguns were scratched up or painted so the alloy finish would not reflect. Bandoliers, pouches, haversacks, rucksacks, cartridge belts, and webbing were all secured so nothing would rustle while they were on the march. Instead of bringing their helmets, they donned soft covers. Mostly, these were knit watch caps they could pull over their ears and wear low over their brows. Squad leaders wore their patrol caps instead of their peaked caps. Everyone was still bringing their tactical hoods, as these were highly modular in their wear. The black hood was a standard part of the uniform and could be worn around the neck, drawn up around the head without covering the face, or could cover the face all the way up to the eyes. Despite this coverage, everyone still took charcoal from the cooking pits and blackened their faces. Dog tags were removed from the chain and placed in separate areas; one tag would be placed inside a boot and the other would be stashed inside a coat’s chest pocket. In this event, if someone were blasted to pieces, one could potentially find identification in what remained of the torso or in an amputated foot.
Logistics were an important aspect of their preparation. Bloody Platoon was going to be living rough for at least a week and they were going to have to carry everything they needed to survive. Rations, medicine, extra charge packs, ammunition, munitions, explosives, toolkits, mess kits, cells and crystals for the Vox-casters, and their sleeping bags and blankets; everything needed to be carried. To remain as clandestine as possible, they would stretch all their resources until an airdrop was absolutely necessary. If anything broke, they would need to fix themselves; no supporting personnel were joining them. Almost every individual in Bloody Platoon was tall, broad, and strong, and could carry a great deal of weight. Even still, what each Guardsman carried was going to be carefully assembled, reviewed, and placed upon their persons. Voxman, some of the specialists, and the men in the Heavy Weapons Squads were going to have the worst of it as they already carried some of the heaviest loads for a standard operation. Even worse, weapons that could be placed on carts would have to be carried; carts were too noisy and wouldn’t make it over the harsh terrain of the Cadian hinterland.
One of the most important aspects of the long march would be navigation. While Marsh Silas handled the logistical and tactical elements of their preparation, Lieutenant Hyram spent a great deal of time at headquarters collecting intelligence. He downloaded the most up-to-date versions of the sector’s map to his Data-slate. As well, he collected copies of parchment versions of the map for each squad. On top of all this, he rounded up extra compasses, plotting tools, spare parchment, field quills, and Data-slate batteries. Then, it was a matter of plotting the route. Of course, the tale he and Captain Giles—who was now in on the slight deception—spun to Colonel Isaev was their training route. In reality, the route would take them up the northern road and through grounds they were previously ambushed in. Once they conducted a more thorough investigation of the area, they would break to the west and truly begin the countryside trek. During the journey, Hyram would adjust their route as they collected more evidence.
In the days leading up to it, Hyram and Marsh Silasd did more than just prepare the aspects of the mission. In every spare moment, they tucked himself into the officer’s quarters and studied. Flipping through the Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer: Cadia, as well as countless tomes regarding small unit tactics, the duo educated themselves as much as possible on the fighting ahead. Once, Marsh thought it was the mark of a weak and cowardly man to retreat to his books before a fight. But now, sitting shoulder to shoulder with his close friend, he found truth and wisdom in it. Their voracious appetite for knowledge paid off and they articulated many different scenarios for the platoon to handle. Hyram’s methodical self-education was inspiring; if he did not know how to fight an enemy, he would disappear, teach himself, and then return prepared for battle. Marsh Silas could only emulate this and hope he would become as dangerous an officer as Hyram.
On the night they planned to set out, Marsh Silas was still reading in Hyram’s quarters. His face was already covered in charcoal and he had everything he needed already on his webbing except for his rucksack and M36. Hyram returned from headquarters, clearly agitated.
“I say, man, the lack of communication from command to our ranks is appalling,” he grumbled. Briefly, he looked up and down the hall to make sure none of the other enlisted men were around. “I was only just informed that heretics raided a convoy and several vehicle compounds in coordinated attacks. They made off with dozens of motorbikes and carriages! Colonel Isaev was aware of this information and failed to pass it on to anyone, including the company commanders! He said, ‘it did not seem like action to take note of.’ Said that right to my face. Can you believe it, Silas?”
Hyram folded his arms across his chest, leaned back against the wall, and looked down at his boots. He shook his head and his expression grew angrier. Eventually, he looked up sharply. “I wonder if he is truly doing everything in his power to hamper us after we completed the mission at Kasr Fortis or if he merely grows feeble.”
“He has been fighting you and the company commanders on this matter for weeks. Should we suspect him of treason?”
“Heresy and corruption?” Hyram held up his hands. “I have seen no evidence of this. We are not going to play the role of Inquisitor here so don’t get any fanciful ideas about raiding his office. Enough, what is the platoon’s status?”
“Sir, Bloody Platoon is almost squared away,” he reported. Hyram nodded and checked his wrist-chrono.
“Sundown was half an hour ago. Round up the squad leaders.”
Marsh set to his task and pulled Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, Stainthorpe, Walmsley Major, Foster, and even Sergeant Clivvy from their activities and assembled them in the common room. As well, they were joined by Drummer Boy, Color Sergeant Babcock, Sergeant Honeycutt, and Junior Commissar Carstensen. Hyram sat at the center table and laid out the map. Everyone gathered around him in a circle.
The platoon sergeant made sure he was next to Carstensen. While she stared dutifully at the map, he couldn’t help but sneak a few glances at her. Like everyone else, she blackened her face with charcoal. Her pale cheeks, nose, and forehead were smudged and messy. Doffing her high-peaked Commissar’s cap, she didn’t wear any head cover but she did have the tactical hood scrunched down around her neck. Instead of a crimson coat, she wore Marsh’s spare standard-issue khaki coat underneath her olive drab Flak Armour chestplate.
It was the only piece of armor any of the troops were allowed to wear; shin guards, knee pads, elbow pads, vambraces, and helmets were all being left behind. A platoon of sixty, all clad in medium armor, would generate a great deal of noise. As well, the weight would wear them down on the long march. Stealth and mobility were the key components of the operation. Basic protection was all they could afford, save for the Heavy Weapons Squads and some specialists. Their Flak Armour was imbued with weight-assistant servos which allowed them to carry their larger, heavier weapons.
Carstensen pushed some of her orange locks behind her ear. Briefly, her aquamarine gaze flitted up and met Marsh’s violet eyes. He could’t help but smile and he was glad when she quickly returned it. Pay attention, Silvanus. Barlocke’s voice was teasing and the tone sent little jolts and shiverings down his spine. I am, Marsh Silas replied in his mind’s voice, although he was certain Barlocke knew he was lying.
With a plotter, Hyram drew out the route on the map. “Let’s go over it again. It’s very important that we move quickly. I want to be in the hinterland before daybreak. By night we shall move and by day we will rest. Eating, smoking, and drinking while moving is strictly prohibited. We cannot afford to leave any kind of waste behind that can be traced. The last thing we need are some gaggle-eyed heretics trying to play soldier following our trail.”
He ran the field quill up through the hinterland. “After clearing the road, we will strike west from the road ambush we sustained and then press northward. The land becomes craggy and hilly, and these locations…” He circled a trio of gorges on the map. “...will serve as safe areas where we can bunk down. We will linger there for only two days and one night; that first night, we will scout out the area. Afterwards, we’ll strike north-northwest, pushing deeper into the sector.”
It was an area Bloody Platoon was very familiar with. When they were seconded to the Ordo Hereticus under Inquisitor Barlocke, they staged a massive regimental operation to clear the countryside of potential heretic hideouts. Numerous rockcrete towns and villages, composed of the vestiges of once sprawling Militarum installations, were cleared. Loyal citizens were extricated to Army’s Meadow before being removed to Kasr Sonnen. Those who aided the heretics or were traitors themselves were executed. None of the structures still stood; Arnold Yoxall and many other demolition experts saw to that.
Hyram put down the quill and folded his hands. “This is a dangerous and difficult mission. No support, no supplies, on our own. What’s more, I must ask ye Shock Troopers to be subdued in your efforts to engage the enemy. Destroying them is vital, but discovering where they dwell, even more so.” The Lieutenant stood up and braced his hands on the tabletop. “But I am highly confident this platoon is up to the task and rest assured,” he said with a smile, “we will definitely have contact with the enemy.”
Everyone grinned and nodded. Hyram stood up and folded his hands behind his back, resuming an officer’s air. “Honeycutt, brief your field chirurgeons as necessary. This is tough terrain so expect a great deal of rolled and sprained ankles. Bring whatever you have to so every Guardsman can stay in the fight; we can’t spare men to carry another.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Walmsley Major, your men are going to be the difference in every engagement we fight, especially if we have the opportunity to ambush them. Bring as much ammunition as possible; I don’t care whether you have to pay your wage or steal it.”
“Yes, sir!” the elder Walmsley said with a happy smile. “Already pinched a few extra belts myself.”
“Drummer Boy, have you squared away every Vox-caster we’re bringing with us? Updated codebooks, frequencies, cells, everything, right down to the switches?”
“Including this one, sir?”
Drummer Boy reached under the table and dragged up a brand new Vox-caster. Hyram blinked and looked at Marsh Silas in confusion. The platoon sergeant grinned.
“Follow me, sir,” he said.
“The rest of you are dismissed,” Hyram said. While the NCO’s dispersed, Marsh, Hyram, Drummer Boy, and Clivvy went down the hall to the new barracks room. There they found the Whiteshields finishing their preparation. Their faces were darkened, they did not wear helmets, and they were meticulously going over their gear. When they saw part of the platoon command squad enter, they all snapped at attention.
Hyram raised his hand politely. “At ease.”
“Rowley, front and center if ya please.” The young Whiteshield stepped forward, her freckles mask by charcoal smudging. Marsh smiled down at her. “You passed your Vox-caster course. It’s not an easy job but you’ve done well. So, we present with your equipment and new rank of Junior Technical Sergeant. Congratulations.”
Her eyes widened as Drummer Boy stepped forward with it. She smiled very wide, as if she were given a gift.
“Thank you, Senior Staff Sergeant!” she exclaimed. Quickly taking the set and placing it on the table, she ran through the activation functions, flipped through the pages of the codebook Drummer Boy gave her, tested the handset and headset, and clapped her hands together. “It might be a ghost box but it is a wonderful machine!”
While Drummer Boy ran her through a few more technical aspects and the rest of the squad congratulated her, Marsh watched proudly. Yeardley was already equipped with the Cadian-pattern rotary grenade launcher, Webley was wearing her corporal’s stripes, Rayden had his medical kit, and Tattersall had been afforded a long-ranged optic for his M36 and an extended barrel. All had fulfilled their advanced squad role training.
“They truly applied themselves,” Hyram said. “Well done, Silas. These are the most motivated Whiteshields in the whole regiment.”
“It is their success, not mine,” Marsh said earnestly. “We get them through this, Isaev will see sense. Maybe many Cadian regiments will, after this.”
The two friends exited the barracks and headed back to their section. As they journeyed through the halls, M36’s slung over their shoulders, they didn’t speak for a few moments. Marsh looked at Hyram who looked worried. The Lieutenant shook his head. “Part of me is astounded Colonel Isaev agreed to this foray. Another part of me is ashamed that I lied to do it. If it turns up nothing, we shall be safe from Isaev’s persecution, but won’t I appear a deranged fool?”
Marsh scoffed and tapped his friend’s shoulder.
“Lieutenant Hyram, ya ain’t no fool,” he said in a jovial tone. “I’ve got absolute confidence in you, sir. You ain’t gonna lead us into anything we can’t handle. Bloody Platoon is ready, they’ll go anywhere and they’ll do anything for ya. Don’t let your nerves get to you now; leaders must fret and stress, but when it comes time to forge ahead, we must do so without doubt.” Hyram smiled and looked down at his boots. No matter his expression, he always seemed so very thoughtful. Eventually, they entered their section, shook hands, and the Lieutenant ducked into his quarters.
Marsh Silas decided to take a walk through the entire barracks and make sure everyone was ready. Almost every single Shock Trooper was dressed accordingly and prepared their kit correctly. A few went over their weapons a second or third time, ensuring the sights were set correctly and the barrels were clean. Some who carried more than their basic armament sorrowfully parted with their secondary, personal weapons. Hand-crafted clubs were predominantly left behind. A few, like Foley and Logue, would not part with their weapons. The former’s heavy double-barreled shotgun was always with him and the latter utilized his modified autopistol more than his M36. Both were strong enough to bear their loads and still carry their extra weapons and ammunition. Marsh Silas wouldn’t force them to leave them behind either; after all, he was bringing the automatic shotgun his old friend used to carry, too.
The men were not as excited or jovial as they often were before an operation. But this was not a bad thing. Their morale was not low and they were not scared either. Rather, they were focused on the task and understood the grave importance of the mission. Everyone more or less understood Hyram’s misgivings about the overall strategic situation in their sector and were just as determined to root it out, if just for the sake of stopping the frequent ambushes. Everything they did was slow, methodical, and deliberate. The way they wrapped black tape around their bayonet lugs, slowly ground their blades on whetstones, and fastened every loose piece of their wargear with cords was drawn out and professional. It was easy to forget when they were hooting and hollering on the firing line, playing hands of Black Five and taking swigs from their liquor rations, that these men were indeed professionals. Raised from birth to be soldiers, they were not the members of some random tithed regiment or a pitiful Planetary Defence Force: they were Cadian Shock Troopers.
After checking with every squad, he stopped back in with the Whiteshields. Drummer Boy was gone and Rowley was already wearing the Vox-caster. She held the handset up to her ear and smiled as she tested the frequencies.
“Station One-Three, this is Station One-Four, over,” she said in a giddy tone.
An exasperated groan came from the other end of the link.
“Roger One-Four, we are receiving for the third time, thank you.”
When she spotted Marsh standing in the doorframe, Rowley rushed over and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Thank you, Staff Sergeant, thank you! I am honored you chose me and I shall carry this Vox as if it is a medal! I promise I won’t let ya down!”
“Well and good, Rowley,” Marsh chuckled, prying her hands off. “Fall in, 4th Squad.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
All ten Whiteshields lined up. Marsh walked up and down the line. He tightened a few straps on Webley and removed excess belongings from Graeme, but besides those two issues, the squad’s wargear was immaculate. “One more lesson before we go out,” he said in a grave tone. The Whiteshields appeared enraptured, and then confused by Marsh’s growing smile. “Bring extra socks. There’s snow comin’ and your feet may get wet. You’ll be moving hard, so you’ll sweat. Change your socks whenever we make camp. Dry the wet ones by a fire in camp and then wear them around your neck while we march.” The Whiteshields nodded quickly.
When he finished his inspection, he stood in front of them and did his best to appear impressive and commanding. “In the eyes of this platoon sergeant, you are ready to go out and fight. But don’t get ahead of yourselves. You ain’t Shock Troopers yet. Stay disciplined and follow orders. You’ll be in the center of the column where everyone can see ya but if you happen to get lost, fear not. We will come find you.”
Although their faces were blackened he could see they were excited and nervous. Everyone was twitching with excess energy, their free hands curling up and opening again. They bounced on their feet and their breathing was accelerated. He knew what was happening. Zeal was mingling with fear and each was battling for control. All the training they received over the years coalesced with their new preparations, but they still wrangled with emotions. Such was to be expected of the young and inexperienced. But Marsh Silas offered them a very kind smile to let them know he was happy with their performance. Reaching out to Clivvy, he grasped her by the shoulder. “And I’ll be comin’ with ya.” Everyone was excited to hear that and their smiles showed it. Marsh Silas couldn’t help but feel happy about that. “I’ll be with ya as much as I can and that’s a promise I aim to keep. Now, are you ready?”
“We’re ready, Marsh Silas!” they all sang.
“Welcome to the Bloody Platoon, Whiteshields; we are the first to spill blood, and the first to shed blood. Now, fall out!”
Marsh waited until they disappeared down the hall to poke his head out. As he expected, Junior Commissar Carstensen was waiting just outside. She pushed herself off the wall and walked into the empty quarters. Both of them stepped away from the entrance so they were out of sight and leaned against the wall. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood in silence and stared at the opposite wall.
Eventually, Marsh Silas pulled out his pipe. Carstensen took notice and frowned.
“Standing orders dictate there is to be no smoking.”
“I ain’t one to cross orders like that,” Marsh said. He lifted his tabac pouch out and with two fingers pretended to pinch some out. Making a gesture that made it seem he was sprinkling it into the bowl of his pipe, he then procured an invisible match and pretended to strike it. Then, he dipped it into the bowel and took a few puffs on the empty, unlit pipe. When he finished, he grinned at Carstensen and offered it to her. “Smoke away,” he said. She looked at him as if he completely lost his mind, then sighed, and took the pipe from him. Staring at it for a few moments, she pressed the neck to her lips and took a few fake puffs herself. Acting as if she were holding the smoke in her lungs, she puffed out her cheeks and then released a long breath.
“You’re a strange man, Silas,” she said as she handed the pipe back. He feigned a few more puffs and then shrugged.
“Strange I am, but you seem to like that,” he said slyly.
“And am I strange?” she asked, taking the pipe back.
“Different may be a better word,” the platoon sergeant said.
“You’re not supposed to be different or strange if you are a Commissar,” Carstensen sighed. “You adopt the regiment’s culture and ensure it adheres to the Emperor's will. That is all. If you fail in either regard you are not worthy of the rank.” She turned the pipe around and gently touched the Aquila emblem on the front. “I still have quite the journey ahead until I am Cadian, also.”
Marsh Silas stared at her for a long time. He couldn’t bear to see her sad even if it was masked behind her stern expression and darkened cheeks. So he reached into his kit bag, the square-shaped haversack which hung around his right shoulder, and produced his patrol cap. A boxy thing with a short brim that was straight instead of peaked, it not only denoted their rank but also was an excellent cover to wear during summer or while on watch. Straightening it out and adjusting the rear strap, he stepped in front of Carstensen and placed it on top of her head. Again, he readjusted it and tucked her orange hair back behind her ears so it wouldn’t fall in front of her gaze.
Stepping back, he held his chin and squinted as if he were deeply scrutinizing her. After a few moments, he shrugged.
“I can’t find Junior Commissar Carstensen anywhere! Have ya seen her? Ya haven’t, well then, you best get yer M36 and get on line then, or are you not a Cadian Shock Trooper?”
Carstensen slowly smiled. Marsh reached down and took her hand. “You fit right in with this pack o’ gunmen. You embody all the values they’re expected to uphold. You’re a Cadian to these men and to me.” Marsh’s feelings grew and he was unable to resist them. He wrapped his arms around Carstensen, pulling her close and holding the back of her head. “It must be a hard thing to come from a faraway place and have to live another way. Like living two different lives. I’ve got it much easier, for I have but one: a Cadian’s life.”
“It is...not so bad,” Carstensen said, her voice muffled in Marsh’s shoulder. She was holding him back but her voice was somewhat surprised. “This does not make me sad. It is what I expected and wanted, even if Cadian life is unforgiving, martial, and often difficult. But this comradeship, the pride they all feel resonates with me, and I am proud to be a part of it even if I feel I fail.”
“Well, then I am happy for that failure.” Marsh smiled at Carstensen as she parted slightly and gazed at him in utter confusion. “If you were just like every other Cadian, you would be mighty boring, wouldn’t ye? If there’s a day that should come where you fit in so well you no longer resemble yerself, that’ll be a sad day for me. Bein’ a bit different, well, methinks that’s a good thing. If the Emperor wanted us all to be the same, he would have carved us out of wood or shaped us from metal.”
Carstensen blinked, then her gaze softened, and she smiled. The embrace closed once more. The Junior Commissar readjusted and her mouth was by his ear. Her warm breath made him shiver.
“I expected much when I took up a Cadian’s life but I never expected you. It is a good life, but when I’m with you, it seems even better.”
They parted slightly and Marsh smiled bashfully.
“Being a Shock Trooper is the greatest duty in the entire Imperium. But it is even better with, well,” he trailed off, lost in her glittering eyes. Instead of finishing his sentence, he leaned in and kissed her. She coiled her arms around his neck and then pulled him closer. The movement brought her back against the wall. She put her hand on his cheek, keeping Marsh there. Even though he could taste the bitter, ashy charcoal on her lips, he didn’t care.
Both of them parted again and took a quick breath. “We ought to join the others and make ready to depart,” Marsh breathed. The air between them was heated and his heart was pounding. Carstensen nodded, smiled, and then laughed a little.
“It appears I have compromised your charcoal.”
Blinking in confusion, Marsh went over to a small palm-sized mirror that was hung on a wooden post between two of the Whiteshields’ bunks. Peering into it, he saw Carstensen had left a handprint in the black on his left cheek. Although the imprint of the palm was more smudged than bare, the fingers left clear trails. Chuckling, Marsh took some from the base of his neck and applied to his cheek.
“Can’t have them thinkin’ we were up to somethin’.”
“Most certainly not.”
Just as Marsh finished adding to his charcoal cover, a cry ran throughout the barracks.
“Bloody Platoon, we’re moving out!”
A snap of reflexes saw Marsh Silas and Carstensen enter the tunnels. Quickly, they rejoined their comrades, collected their remaining wargear, and waited their turn to clamber up the ladder. Nobody spoke, not even the squad leaders. As soon as one Guardsman was high enough on the ladder another climbed up after him. One by one, each soldier disappeared into the bunker above them. A few breathed heavily under the weight of their wargear or from the excitement from heading out once again. Heavy boots thudded on the wooden rungs of the ladder.
When it was finally Marsh’s turn, he instinctively inhaled when he entered the bunker. It was warm down in the tunnels but the bunker’s firing ports and slits remained open. The night air was cold and threatened to snatch the warmth from a trooper’s chest. Assembling outside, Bloody Platoon trundled down the slope in a staggered, trickling line. Passing by Guardsmen from other platoons, they exchanged salutes, handshakes, and taps on the shoulder. Brief remarks, such as, ‘try not to get lost out there,’ and, ‘don’t shit in our trenches,’ were exchanged. After drifting through the main compound they finally came to a stop at the main gate. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft were waiting for them.
Lieutenant Hyram conferred with the company officers. Meanwhile, the squad leaders arranged the platoon into a tactical column. Upon Marsh’s orders, the Whiteshields and Heavy Weapons Squads were placed in the center. It would keep the former boxed in and unable to stray if they grew disorientated during the night march. Having the latter in the center provided flexibility in case of an engagement. Attaching itself to 1st Squad, the Platoon Command Squad would lead the way. 2nd Squad came in front of the Whiteshields while the Special Weapons Squad came after the second Heavy Weapons Squad. 3rd Squad brought up the rear with Junior Commissar Carstensen. Hyram, ever the leader, took his place up front and Marsh maintained the center.
After everyone was in line, Marsh waited near Lieutenant Hyram.
“...2nd and 3rd Platoons will maintain alternating shifts as a quick reaction force,” Giles was saying. “If you face overwhelming odds, I’ll send the at-ready platoon out by Valkyrie and will divert as much air power to your location as possible.”
“Thank you, sir. We’ll be maintaining radio silence for the better part of our training mission.” Hyram said this in a careful tone in case Colonel Isaev or any of his staff officers were in earshot. “Whenever we stop, we’ll communicate over a secure Vox-link and then change the codes after the subsequent transmission.”
“Very good. Do your best for the Emperor. Stay together.” It was dark in the camp and the majority of lights were off per his request. Just in case the heretics were observing them from afar, he wanted to make sure Bloody Platoon was able to exit the camp without being spotted. But Hyram wore a helmet-mounted dull red-colored lamp, illuminating the Captain’s smile. The company commander took Hyram by the shoulder. “Find out whatever you can, but remember what the real mission is: getting back to base alive. And try not to engage in a larger scale action without us. We all want a piece of it too, you know.”
“We’ll save some for you, sir, have no fear,” Hyram said, chuckling a little. They saluted one another. “With your permission, sir, I’ll take my men out.”
Giles nodded. Hyram turned to Marsh Silas. “This mission is a-go. Get them moving.”
“Bloody Platoon, for Emperor and Imperium, move out,” Marsh said out loud. Falling in with the Whiteshields, the column passed through the gate and marched up Army’s Meadow. For a few minutes, it was a silent march. Waves crashed on the shore and the wind moaned. Black leather boots thudded on the pavement. Yellow flowers, hidden in the dark, swayed and rustled. Here and there, somebody cleared their throat or coughed. The cold air was tense.
Yet, as they set out, there was a quiet glory to it all. Everyone brimmed with excitement and Marsh Silas felt it radiating off them like their natural heat. It was an undertaking, and a grave one at that. But the impeccable veterans survived countless battles and were emboldened by their victories at Kasr Fortis, Army’s Meadow, and the Cove. Strong and determined, they believed they could succeed in this mission. Even without support or numbers, and willingly getting lost in the hinterland, they were undaunted. It was a notion every Guardsmen carried in their hearts.
Knowing they would cross the bridge for another few minutes, Marsh called on Monty Peck. “How’s about one song before we set off on this adventure?”
“I Come From the Kasr is my fancy.”
“Take the lead, I’ll join ya.” After a moment, Monty Peck and Marsh Silas sung in low, drawn out tones:
“I’ve come from the Kasr,
with a lasgun in my hand,
and I’m goin’ off to battle.
I’ve come from the Kasr
and it is my only dream,
to march across, this Imperium.
I’ve come from the Kasr,
to be a gunman for my Lord,
my service, will only end in death,
o’ my Emperor,
do not weep for me,
for I’ve come from the Kasr
with a lasgun in my hand,
and I’m goin’ off to battle...”
Both Guardsmen ceased singing when Bloody Platoon crossed the bridge. Marsh Silas looked over his shoulder. Army’s Meadow lit up, its trenches, wires, posts, and towers illuminated in stark white light. Silhouettes drifted across the compound, the watchmen stood in their towers and at the checkpoint. Little pinpricks of orange light appeared as Shock Troopers lit lho-sticks. A wave of laughter washed through the air and was quickly snatched away by a gust of wind. He thought heard a prayer, although it sounded close; somebody in the platoon was asking the Emperor for protection.
***
Bloody Platoon crossed many kilometers up the north road in good time. They stopped only to examine the corpses of the heretics Marsh Silas and Carstensen killed a day ago. None of their ilk reclaimed the bodies or salvaged the motorbike wrecks. A perimeter was established and the pockets of the dead searched. Everything was done carefully so as to not expose themselves to the heretic’s corrupted, bloated flesh. None of them carried anything that could be considered useful intelligence. Cleansing prayers and oils were issued to those that touched the bed and the march resumed.
It was a very dark night. Thick clouds blotted out the moon and there was no ambient light from any of the nearby installations. The mountains and ridges which could be seen for many kilometers during the day were just part of the sable gloom. To the south, Kasr Sonnen shone brightly on its perch. Searchlights scanned the skies, briefly illuminating spires or gunships circling overhead, taking off, or landing. Occasionally, the red and green lights of Valkyries flew by. Earthshaker Cannons and other artillery pieces fired in the distance. It sounded like thunder. Before long, a light snow began. Soon, the pavement was covered and sixty sets of booted feet started to crunch, crunch, crunch through the dusting.
They did not stop. Nobody complained, coughed, sneezed, sang, or spoke. Everyone held their weapons low, ready to bring them at a moment’s notice. Heads turned and turned, scanning the environment, listening and looking for any kind of movement. Multiple times, a halt was ordered because the troops on point thought they heard or saw something. Each of these moments proved very tense; the column came to a complete stop, everyone scurried to the sides of the road, and crouched down. Minutes felt like ages until the stop order was lifted.
Even with their many halts, Bloody Platoon arrived at the last ambush site within a few hours. Another perimeter was established; Walmsley Major ordered the heavy teams to spread out to cover the roads and other likely approaches. Bullard and Hitch went to the top of the rise for a better view of the landscape. After assessing the area, Bloody Platoon maintained its western course. The march was very brief and they hardly traveled half a kilometer before they came to the end of the trail of bodies. Many of the Guardsmen stumbled into the craters left from the Marauders' bombs and needed to be helped out. Walking the trail together, Marsh and Hyram tried to make sense of the patterns. Some of the heretics were in bunches, others alone, and many were mangled and blown far off from the munitions.
Marsh cradled his M36 in his arms and stood at the end of the trail. But Hyram walked it back and forth several times.
“Yes, yes,” he murmured to himself. “Walk with me, Silas.” The Lieutenant looped his arm around Marsh’s and together they trekked back to the rise. Turning on their heels, they marched all the way back. When they returned to Marsh’s original post, Hyram let him go and held his arms. “See?”
“Sir, as much as I enjoy a stroll with my commanding officer, I fail to see just what was so peculiar about that.”
“The trail curves, don’t you see? It goes straight, straight, straight west for about two-hundred, two-hundred fifty meters, then drifts northwest for about one-hundred fifty meters, and then turns directly north for the remainder. Everything points north.
“Just like the thieves who stole our bikes. Question is, how far away is their camp?”
“They could not build their base close to us; they must have many satellite facilities nearby,” Hyram said. “Your blanket, please.”
Marsh doffed his rucksack, yanked out the bundle, and covered Hyram’s head and shoulders with it. He then ducked his head underneath it as well. The Lieutenant activated his Data-slate and the screen was so bright Marsh had to squint. After studying the map for a little while, Hyram nodded. “We won’t head as far west as I planned. We’ll plot our northern trajectory off this trail of dead. We might just come across many strongholds.”
“However many there are, they won’t stop us,” Marsh replied. The Data-slate was deactivated, the blanket returned to Marsh’s rucksack, and the two men rose.
“Let’s move’em out, Staff Sergeant.”