This is the first chapter of a story I'm writing but if nobody likes it I'll just leave it as a one-shot. I'm using the British army command structure in this so a battalion is made up of 5 companies of about 100 men which are made up of 3 platoons of 32 men which are made up of 3 sections of 8 to 10 men. I will also swear in English - I don't know the 40k versions. Don't worry I wont use any words I didn't know when I was 13. Sadly I knew pretty much all of them. I also apologise in advance for the formatting but for some reason ff won't let me indent.

The bombardment had been going on for six days. By now sixteen year-old Guardsman Helmut Lossow, 'Helmet' to his hilarious comrades, would readily admit that it was becoming a trifle tedious. It wasn't the incessant booms – he was a kriegsman, he was trained to sit through months of artillery barrages without developing slight shellshock. It was the fact that he had been shipped off to Cadia at the height of the 13th Black Crusade and he had nothing to do but watch the heretical bastards who were supposed to be fighting him shell the false earthworks in front of Kasr Vek. Being on sentry duty didn't help either: he had to watch ineffective shelling – at least when he was off duty he could drink or gamble with his mates. Contrary to popular – civilian – belief the Death Korps weren't faceless automatons at all; beneath the gas mask was a living breathing human being just like any other. Only more fatalistic. And more unflinching. And more cloned. In fact not much like other human beings at all.

Suddenly the previously peaceful horizon erupted with a great mass of shapes. Lossow could see that most of them were as normal as Chaos worshipping scum could get but scattered among them were the hulking shapes of Chaos Space Marines.
"Sergeant!" Lossow called out. "They're here."
The Sergeant looked at the oncoming mass. "Well done lad. Go and take up your position, I'll inform the major."

The fear arrived. Watching the horde of Chaos-worshippers surge forwards evoked a wave of gut-clenching, bowel-loosening fear. Adrenaline flooded Lossow's bloodstream as his body's natural fight or flight reflex kicked in. But Guardsman Helmut Lossow was a Kriegsman: flight was an option he refused to take, so fight he must.

The barrel of Lossow's lasgun glowed dully from repeated firing. The chaos scum were barely halfway to the Imperial fortifications and the defenders must have killed well over three hundred of them yet the deluded fanatics didn't even falter. Things got worse for the defenders when the said fanatics opened fire on the run. For the Death Korps company this wasn't really a problem, the three Cadian Whiteshield companies also defending Kasr Vek, however, weren't as used to this kind of warfare. The head of the whiteshield standing next to Lossow exploded in a cloud of red gore. All the nearby whiteshields turned to watch their now headless comrade fall to the floor. Lossow wasn't entirely sure if the sickly green colour their faces had turned was fear or one of Nurgle's plagues but he fervently hoped it was the former. Then, as one, the Cadians threw down their weapons and ran as fast as their legs could carry them. Lossow decided that the best way he could help the situation was to keep shooting the forces of Chaos. The defenders fire had slackened significantly: not only were there three hundred less defenders but the Kriegan Lucius-pattern lasguns were semi-automatic, single shot affairs unlike their Cadian Standard Short-pattern counterparts.

Lossow looked down his guns sights for what must have been the hundredth time since the Chaos bastards had appeared on the horizon, barely half an hour ago. He lined up on a cultist running full tilt at the imperials and pulled the trigger. The lasgun kicked back brutally into his already bruised shoulder. The cultist fell, the hole in his chest the size of a tennis ball – Lucius-pattern lasguns fired more slowly than others but they packed a bigger punch. Lossow had time for one more shot, a traitor guardsman preparing to throw a grenade, before the Chaos forces were upon the Death Korp defenders.

A cultist leaped into the trench wildly swinging a sword at Lossow. Lossow brought his gun up to block before following through to club the cultist's face with the stock. Stunned, the cultist dropped to his knees. Lossow brought his rifle up to his shoulder and shot the cultist in the left temple. A horrible stench reached Lossow's nostrils; before Lossow jellified his brain the cultist had shat himself. Insanely pleased he was wearing a gas mask Lossow looked up to find himself face to warped helmet with a Chaos Space Marine.

Lossow couldn't breathe. Personally, he blamed the power-armoured hand that had his throat in an iron grip.
"Die Imperial Worm!" The helmet growled.
The best response Lossow could summon went along the lines of. "Hhaakkh." Perhaps not his finest moment. Nothing he did broke the Chaos Marine's hold on Lossow's throat. Neither kicking nor flailing had any effect; he'd have more luck beating up a plascrete bunker with his fists. He saw his lasrifle on the ground and would have gasped, if it weren't for a certain marine – he never had time to fix his bayonet. It was still scabbarded in his boot. Lossow reached down, drew his bayonet and plunged it into the only soft-looking part of his opponent: the unarmoured neck joint between helmet and chestplate. Lossow's favourite Chaos Marine gurgled, dropped Lossow then promptly fell on top of him. His estimation of the dead weight had risen from thirty stone through ten tons to somewhere near that of a small battleship before someone rolled the corpse off him. The stylised-skull gas mask of Major Hoffman appeared in Lossow's vision.
"Hand up there, son?" The Major asked sounding faintly amused. At least, as much as is possible through a gas mask.
Lossow accepted the proffered hand. "Thanks sir. Where've they gone?"
"They all ran when you knifed that big bugger. Nice work that by the way". The Major took off his gas mask and got out a box of lho sticks. "Want one?"
"Ah, no thanks sir. I don't." Lossow refused trying to wave the box away.
The major was undeterred. "They help with the stress."
"Well alright then, thanks sir." Lossow took a lho out of the box and accepted Hoffman's light.
"Oh, don't thank me. The first one's always horrible – and excellent entertainment for everyone nearby." The Major said, laughing at Lossow who had taken one pull and was now bent double coughing his guts out. "Enjoy that then get ready; these chaos scum will be back – especially now those whiteshields've buggered off.

Five minutes later the Major had called a meeting of all ranks above Guardsman in the command tent, Lossow had decided that maybe lho sticks weren't that bad after all and that bloody artillery had started again. They were still shelling the ground in front of the fortifications so no-one got killed. That is, until one shell overshot the rest and landed slap-bang on the command tent.

Now, I'm too proud to beg so I'll ask nicely, once. Please Review. Constructive criticism will be taken on board, flames will be laughed at.