Quartermaster: The Emperor's Peace
++ The Emperor's Peace be with you, now and forever. May you kneel before the Golden Throne, and be judged as He deems worthy. ++
Dirt showered the prone form of Quartermaster 707-066-482, known informally as Dörfer. He had faint memories of other Kriegsmen calling him by his name, most notably a ruthless drill instructor. He had yelled at 707-066-482 on many an occasion during training. The Quartermaster smiled grimly as he remembered what had become of this particular instructor turned Watchmaster. After a vicious encounter with a Tyranid brood, 707-066-482 had found him lying in the mud and blood of the battlefield, his right arm lying dismembered a metre away. He had received the Emperor's Peace, yes, but 707-066-482 had shot him in the stump of his arm first, so he had gone to the Golden Throne howling in agony.
More dirt fell into the Quartermaster's dugout as bombs rained from the sky. 707-066-482 swung himself off his mattress, pushed back the grimy flap that separated the dugout from the trench and stepped outside into the chaos of the world. Death Korps snipers stood on firing steps, shooting lasguns into the distant enemy. Platoons jogged past the Quartermaster on their way to form up and begin the march across the scarred, cratered, churned up bog of no-man's-land. Artillery fired shells out over the heads of the guardsmen and in the distance the crump of the deadly missiles hitting their targets could be heard.
707-066-482 stood in front of the mouth of his dugout, surveying the soon-to-be battlefield. It was foggy, the bloated red sun of the world appearing watery in the grey light of dawn. It had rained again during the night, and subsequently the trench in which 707-066-482 was standing had six inches of muddy water gently lapping in the bottom. It sloshed around the Quartermaster's feet as he began to walk along the maze of trenches that was the Imperial defence.
In the blown-out ruins of a once proud Imperial Guard fortress, a Grot was screeching. This was a normal occurrence within Ork society, but the reason behind this specific Gretchin's outburst was the fact that he had been clamped into one of the crude "Grot Bombs" that the Orks were so fond of using to weaken an enemy. The Grot had been making a noise for around five minutes, and it was driving everyone else crazy, especially the Ork who was chauffeuring the bomb closer to where it would be launched.
A Mek stood next to a large hole in the wall of the fortress, made during the initial Ork bombardment of the bastion, relieving it of the unfortunate Mordian Iron Guard regiment that had, until recently, occupied it. He grinned smugly as he directed the Orks and the unfortunate Grots to line up and aim the bombs. With a flick of his wrist, the Orks launched the Grot Bombs through the gaping wound in the stronghold and out over the no-man's-land towards the Death Korps trenches. Some exploded against the wall due to the Orks' miscalculations, but for the most part the bombs flew through the gap, including the one piloted by the hysterical Grot.
The Grot was still screaming as he was flung through the air in his ramshackle explosive. It shook and juddered underneath the terrified pilot, and along the side a few of the metal plates that had been welded on with less skill snapped off and flew back behind the flying bomb. It was when he could make out the shapes of individual guardsmen that the Grot remembered that he was supposed to fly the bomb to where it would inflict the maximum amount of chaos. As the pilot frantically looked for a target amongst the lasgun fire being directed at him, his wide eyes spotted one of the many temporary tank bridges that had been laid across the trenches. Doomed as he was, the Grot was determined to go down in a heroic way. He resolved to aim for the bridge, squeezing his eyes tight shut as he plummeted towards the Imperial line.
707-066-482 was deep in thought, yet it was impossible to know what was going on behind his grim skull gas mask. The Quartermaster was so pensive that he didn't notice the Grot Bomb as it hurtled towards the guardsmen's positions. As 707-066-482 strode underneath one of the many wooden tank bridges that were laid over the top of the trenches, he was tackled to the ground. Outraged at the audacity of the Guardsman that had so roughly thrown him to the mud, 707-066-482 began to turn around, then was blasted by a wave of heat. Next to him, the smouldering remains of the tank bridge lay, splintered and burning. Pieces of metal were being flung everywhere, crude, scratched chunks littering the trench.
The Quartermaster's anger subsided as he begrudgingly thanked the junior soldier who had saved him. Through the Guardsman's gas mask he could see deep, brown eyes. 707-066-482 remembered that his son had had brown eyes, nearly exactly the same. The Quartermaster wondered what had become of his son. He had been called Hauser, but did that even matter anymore? Surely he was old enough to be fighting?
"Hauser?" 707-066-482 asked.
The Guardsman standing in front of the Quartermaster flinched, as if he had seen a ghost. "Father?" he asked.
"I was not aware you were with the 707th-" began 707-066-482.
"I am Guardsman 707-098-501 of the 707th Death Korps of Krieg Siege Regiment," said Hauser. "I am no longer your son. You are no longer my father. We are comrades, sworn to do the duty of the Emperor and see that no enemy threatens the Imperium of Man. We are soldiers of the Death Korps of Krieg, and we shall fight until the enemy is destroyed, or we are all lying dead upon the battlefield."
The Quartermaster was surprised at the sudden change of the soldier standing in front of him. He shook his head, thanked 707-098-501 again, brushed the worst of the mud off his greatcoat and continued on his way. Far off, he heard a deep, guttural cry, which was quickly picked up by the rest of the enemy until it rose to such a crescendo that it seemed to be inside 707-066-482's head. The sound chilled the Quartermaster's blood and he quickened his pace.
"WAAAAAAAAAAGH!"