A trio of orks sit in a shallow pit, brutal faces illuminated by the glow of a crackling camp fire, they are roasting meat cut from a dead horse on a spit and drinking rotgut spirit from and old oil can. A gentle fall of snow blankets a bombed out stretch of rolling hills dotted here and there with the frozen and naked forms of trees.

The sky in the distance flashes yellow against boiling clouds in the night sky, the rolling thunder of far off artillery rumbling across the horizon. The trio grunt their approval of the day's fighting, the largest one letting out a roaring fart and the others laughing their guttural laughter and tearing chunks out of pieces of charred meat.

In the distance there is the sound of howling engines, another ork saunters over, a flowing topknot atop it's head flapping in the cold breeze that blew through their camp. It grunted something about approaching humans, brandishing a big bolt gun in the direction of the sound of engines and tank chains.

They barely notice the plop-plop-plop of mortars, the smallest of the group standing and craning it's muscular neck skywards, it's maw dropping wide open moments before the group of orks are smeared across the snow and ice packed hard beneath their feet.

In seconds the camp is in chaos, greenskins running to and fro looking for something to fight, others looking for shelter from the deadly rain of mortar shells. Taken by surprise, many are killed by the initial salvo, pounded into the snow that's melted to slush by the heat of HE shells raning down on them.

[+]

Joseph sat in behind the gunsight in the turret of a Leman Russ tank, holding onto the rack holding boxed belts of ammunition for the pintle mounted stubber to brace himself against the violent to and fro movement of the big machine as it rumbled through drifts of snow.

Despite the cold, the crew compartment was already stifling hot, filled with the stink of exhaust and the crew's faces were wet with sweat. The intercom crackled in his ears through the leather helmet he wore, the sleeves of his coveralls rolled up and he whispered a quiet prayer to the machine spirit as he watched the running figures of men swathed in greatcoats trotting across the field ahead of the tank disappear from view through his gunsight.

The horizon ahead flashed an angry sort of orange through bloiling clouds of toxic black, the mortar teams were working furiously to reduce the ork position to a smoking pile of wrecked vehicles and shattered bodies but Joseph wasn't entirely optimistic about it working.

"Shit, it looks like there won't be much left for us to kill by the time we get there." Piped Anatole from his place behind the steering rods, his voice shrill over the intercom as he kicked the machine up a gear.

"You'd be surprised." Came Wilfred from his spot by the breech of the tank's big gun, his coveralls unzipped and tied around his waist.

"Can it, the lot of you." The commander, Stein, spoke in a stern sort of tone, watching the bombardment through his periscope and keeping a lookout for potential targets. "They're just over that rise there, so keep your pricks up."

Just before they reached the rise, the mortar crews stopped their barrage, no more angry flashes and toxic clouds hung thick and black in the air above the greenskin camp. Anatole raced the engines, sending the tank lurching up over the rise and Joseph banged his elbow on the ammunition rack he was using to brace himself.

The camp was a scene of smoke, fire and destruction. One of the orks' troop carrying lorries lay upside down, on fire with it's cab blasted away. There were dead greenskins splayed out across the grey slush, ripped apart time and again until they were nothing more than lumps of barely recognizable meat.

The tank skidded down the other side of the rise almost uncontrollably, threatening to spin one way and then the next as Anatole fought for control and Wilfred banged his head on the breech of the gun, letting out a long howl and kicking Anatole firmly between the shoulders.

"What the fuck are you trying to kill me or something?" He roared, rubbing his forehead and checking to see if he's bleeding.

"Target at three o'clock!" The commander shouted through the intercom.

Joseph kicked the turret around on hydraulics, not bothering with the crank he used for fine adjustment, dropping the as far as it'd go before stomping on the firing pedal. The cannon barked, a shell hurtling into a pillbox built out of sandbags and scrap metal where there was a heavy bolter starting to spit shells at the infantry that was rushing across the rise behind the tanks.

There were three of them, one skidding across the rise and narrowly missing Stein and his crew, Joseph heard the commander spitting curses after the other machine as it careened into the upturned truck before grinding to a halt. There was no time to stop, Anatole gunning the engines and the Tank lurched forward again.

"Foxhole at one o'clock!" The commander called out. "Grind it shut, bury the sons of bitches!"

There were a pair of greenskins tossing grenades into the infantry that rushed into their position, diving into the cover their little fighting hole provided when they saw the tank looming over them and Anatole positioned one track over them, rocking the tank from side to side until he was satisfied that he'd crushed them to paste.

"Load HE, target at eleven o'clock!" Stein shouted, panic in his voice.

Joseph cranked the turret around, sighted an anti-tank gun hidden in the burned out shell of an old barn, it's barrel lining up with the big Leman Russ as it's green skinned crew readied themselves to fire. The largest of them pointing excitedly, shouting, Joseph knew it was them or him.

"Gun clear!" Wilfred shouted.

Joseph didn't hesitate for a second, stamping on the firing pedal and the tank lurched back on it's tracks, the barn exploding in a ball of fire as the shell hit it's mark and set off the boxes of ammunition the greenskins had on hand. The one that had been pointing and shouting was thrown away from the barn, it's body torn apart by the force of the explosion and a heap of skin and gore landed in the snow at the end of it's very short flight.

The guardsmen swept through the position, a junior officer in a tall cap at their head brandishing a sabre in one hand and a bolt pistol in the other, they slaughtered their way through the orks alongside the tanks as they rolled up the position in a rain of fire from their hull mounted heavy bolters.

[+]

It was over in minutes, felt like an eternity to Joseph and the tankers were all drenched in sweat, the fighting compartment of their machine now choked with soot and toxic fumes. Wilfred's forehead was now streaming blood, he'd hit his head again when they rolled over a dilapidated shack that an ork bolter crew had taken shelter in and he'd tied an oil soaked rag across his his head to keep the blood out of his eyes.

The tankers threw the hatch open and clambered out in the shadow of a big tree, it's branches stripped bare by the winter and it's trunk scarred with burns from lasguns. A group of guardsmen were going through the greenskin wounded they could find, running them through with bayonettes to make sure that they were indeed corpses.

"Fuck me but it's cold out here." Wilfred said, sitting with his feet dangling off the edge of the turret, pulled his coveralls on and zipped them up.

There were four tanks when the assault began, only three had assembled near the big tree, a third lay burning not too far away. It's hatch was thrown open, two charred corpses hanging out with skeletal limbs entwined as if they'd been fighting one another to escape the howling inferno that had consumed them.